Man From Barbarossa jb-25 Page 4

  Silly old devil, Meadows had thought. Shoving me out into the Middle East where I don’t know my arm from my elbow, and at a moment of historical crisis as well. But he did like the climate though he missed his wife because it really was not worth her while coming over if this was really going to be a short-term posting.

  He listened to the radio for half-an-hour – the end of Swan Lake, followed by a Chopin Prelude – (the one Barry Manilow pinched for Could it be magic?) then time was up and he went out into the chilly night, checked the Range Rover and drove from his end of the compound to the embassy building.

  Williamson, one of life’s perpetual juniors who must have been five years Meadows’s senior, unlocked the cipher room and they both used their keys to prime the machine. The flimsy was in the safe and it took Meadows fifteen minutes to work the magic.

  Flash from M to Head of Tel Aviv Station. Alert all assets to possible abduction of a Markus Leibermann aka Josif Vorontsov from Tampa, Florida, to some Max Sec Town Hall Stop Be prepared to return Oxford direct within forty-eight hours Stop Relief briefing already on finals Stop Greetings M Stop

  Town Hall was a catch-all for Tel Aviv, Haifa or Jerusalem. Oxford was Moscow and the rest meant that M had him marked up to whizz straight back to Moscow when his relief arrived in the next forty-eight hours, not even calling in at London on the way.

  Nigsy Meadows hoped M had sent winter clothing with his relief. In Moscow at this time of the year it could get down to –44°F, cold enough, as they say, to freeze the medals off a brass general.

  M had sent the flash signal to Tel Aviv and recalled Flossie Farmer from leave during a short break in the briefing. Allowing for normal signal traffic delays, he knew Meadows was unlikely to receive the instructions much before six or seven Tel Aviv time. Whatever Natkowitz had said, M was not convinced that the Mossad had no hand in Leibermann’s sudden disappearance. Just to be on the safe side, he also sent flash signals to Oxford, Banbury, Reading, Colchester, Basingstoke, Frome and Bicester (Moscow, Berlin, Prague, Paris, Bonn, Budapest and Warsaw). Later he would deal with the remainder of the old Eastern Bloc countries.

  Moneypenny had grabbed him to sign the day’s mail and to draw his attention to a couple of signals which seemed to require action now. One was a ‘Confidential’ from MI5 – the Security Service – concerning something that might just have repercussions on the main matter in hand. M worried at it in the back of his mind as he returned to the briefing room, this time to deal with the small amount of intelligence they had on the Scales of Justice.

  They had given up any pretence of special briefing, sitting together for a general discussion, first listening to Pete Natkowitz who related every scrap of information he had supposedly wrung from Tel Aviv. In the end it boiled down to the unpalatable fact that the Mossad surveillance and snatch teams had been left-footed and had no idea who had spirited Leibermann/Vorontsov from Florida, let alone where the man had been taken.

  After these troublesome tidings, M asked Natkowitz to state the Israeli position regarding the Scales of Justice.

  ‘I want to make this absolutely clear,’ the Israeli began. ‘The Scales have nothing to do with the Mossad, nor do we support them in any way. The Israeli government has no lines into them and they have never sought succour from my country, though it would seem they would like people to believe we have very firm links with them.

  ‘Our first knowledge, like that of most people, came from GSG-9. Alert 1042/90. You’ve all seen it?’ He looked up in query.

  The German Counterterrorist Unit’s Alert had indeed been among the many documents Bond had looked through when he came back from sick leave. These days, he considered, they had more terrorist Alert signals than anything else. In fact, it was no secret that the old 00 Section, which had officially ceased to exist, had become his own Service’s elite counterterrorist unit.

  Just to refresh everyone’s minds, Bill Tanner thumbed through a heavy bound loose-leaf file of European Alerts until he came to the one dated October 10th, 1990.

  ‘On three occasions in the past month, according to the GSG-9 circular, we have had evidence of a new quasi-terrorist organisation which appears to be ill-defined and with blurred, uncertain aims. The sources come from a raid, following an informant’s tip, on a house in the Sankt Georg district of Hamburg. Two men were arrested and later admitted to belonging to a unit of the Red Army Faction. Among various pieces of the usual literature seized were two leaflets, one in German, the other in Russian. They purport to come from a group calling itself the Scales of Justice which claims to have a universal membership of six hundred spread throughout Russia, Eastern Europe, the United States of America, Germany, France and the United Kingdom. Its aims are not apparent from these leaflets, but similar items, found after the arrest of two women at Frankfurt airport on September 15th, indicate that the SoJ is a group organised from within the Soviet Union. Its aims are set out in a document called Dossier Number 4 which was seized, together with a handful of names and addresses, from a known member of the so-called Grey Wolves group. It would appear that the SoJ is a tyro organisation which seems to be dedicated to the spread of pro-Israeli and pro-Semite feelings and freedoms within the frontiers of Russia and her former satellite countries. Also it appears to have some unusually close attachments within groups diametrically opposed to its aims – people like the RAF and the Grey Wolves.’ Tanner looked round as though asking if they could all understand that.

  ‘And what else have we, Chief of Staff?’ M jollying things along, knowing well enough what evidence was to hand.

  ‘The addresses, circulated by GSG-9, were in Paris and London. The French GIGN,1 in tandem with the DST,2 invited two people, a man and a woman, to help them, sir.’ Tanner’s tongue was not stuck in his cheek, but he looked firmly at the ceiling.

  ‘As I recall, they were no help.’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir. The French people named in the list recovered from the Grey Wolves were very respectable. As, indeed, were the five our own Special Branch pulled in. Almost a stink about it as one of them had friends in very high places. Fact of the matter is that the Scales of Justice “phoney list”, as it became known, drew a blank.’

  ‘And your people, Pete?’ M asked, his face unreadable.

  ‘Until now we had come to believe that the SoJ was an empty shell.’ Natkowitz’s face was equally expressionless, the pause held just a shade too long before he added, ‘However, something did happen in early November that made some of our analysts wonder.’

  ‘General Brasilov?’ M spoke placidly.

  ‘The assassination of Leonid Brasilov, yes. Shot in the classic terrorist manner as his car waited at traffic lights less than a mile from Red Square, in broad daylight. Ride-by. Two motorcycles and a pair of Uzis. There is evidence that the Kremlin wanted to hush things up but too many people saw it happen.’

  Bond stirred. ‘And General Brasilov was well-known for his anti-Semitic views?’

  ‘And actions. You know what the Russians have been like over the years. The anti-Semitism; the examples that were made; the difficulty Russian Jewish people have had just living in their own country. Yes, things have eased, they have flooded into Israel, but – well, I’ll not be coy. More are still in Russia wanting to get out. More are still being denied exit visas. The Russians will not own up to this, naturally, but the late General Brasilov was one of the largest thorns in that crown worn by so many Soviet Jews.’

  ‘And the day after the assassination . . .’ Bond began.

  ‘The day after, there were posters all over Moscow. “The Scales of Justice accepts responsibility for the death of L.L. Brasilov.” Some of the posters rendered the name not as Chushi Pravosudia, but as Moshch Pravosudia – the Weight of Justice which, in Russian, is a little more sinister. Yes, I’ve no doubt that the KGB are somewhat anxious, for, since then, there have been reports of one attempted bomb outrage in Leningrad and a failed assassination attempt within the Kremlin itself. Both attribut
able to the SoJ.’ Natkowitz gave a thin smile, looking round the room. ‘You know how my Service felt about getting me involved with you British . . .’ he paused, a silence of carefully premeditated effect, for they all knew it had taken some swallowing for the Mossad to agree to an operation hand in glove with the British Service. Mistrust between the two intelligence services had been spawned long ago, and it was an unsavoury truth that the Savaret Matkal, the formidable Israeli anti-terrorist military unit, would not speak directly with the British SAS. All communications went through Germany’s GSG-9.

  ‘We can guess how they felt,’ M said quickly. ‘In a manner of speaking, we’re making a little history here, yes?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Natkowitz spoke with some feeling. ‘Yes, sincerely I hope so.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Bill Tanner.

  ‘We’ve established that the SoJ cannot be easily pinned down. We suspect that they operate from within the troubled borders of the Soviet Union. We must also suspect they have some kind of reasonable organisation.’

  ‘It is conceivable that they are freedom fighters of a kind,’ Natkowitz said flatly, as though that was the end of it.

  M cleared his throat, ‘But, if there is a real connection between the SoJ and the abduction of the man Penderek, mistakenly instead of the real target . . .’

  ‘You really believe mistakenly?’ Natkowitz laughed, one note, pitched high, his head thrown back.

  ‘Pete?’ Bond’s head slowly came round towards the Mossad officer. ‘Pete, you’re telling us that the Penderek abduction was no mistake?’

  ‘I think whoever did it wanted us to believe it was a mistake.’

  ‘Any reason? Logic?’

  ‘Just a nasty, sneaky feeling. Gut reaction. Intuition. Maybe we in the Mossad have become cynical, or even paranoid. But I cannot believe in coincidence. The error in snatching Penderek is so obvious. I also have to admit I find the new development – the disappearance of the real Vorontsov – very disturbing. I suppose I’m really waiting to hear what KGB are after. Maybe that will give us a lead towards the truth. Perhaps you are ready to tell us now, sir.’ This last to M.

  The Chief gave the impression of a man waking from a doze. ‘Yes, why not?’ He looked towards Natkowitz. ‘You know, I presume, KGB appear to be aware of your Service’s theory that the Chushi Pravosudia have lifted the wrong man?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me, sir.’ Natkowitz gave a little smile which Bond translated to mean that the Mossad had almost certainly dropped the information into Moscow Centre via some handy go-between. He also found it odd to hear M using the Russian term for the Scales of Justice.

  ‘The Kremlin,’ M pursed his lips as though he still found it difficult to believe they were on speaking terms with his Service’s old enemies, ‘are of a mind to turn down any idea of bringing Penderek to Russia, and trial. They haven’t announced it yet, but almost certainly will do so the minute you’re both in Moscow. Their reasons are going to be based on the information you have just given us. That it is the wrong man.’

  Natkowitz nodded, once more signifying that this would be the sensible thing for them to do.

  ‘They feel that a refusal might well bring the Chushi Pravosudia into the open, and this is really where you come in. Moscow claim to have two members of the Chushi Pravosudia in custody. They are both male and both of British origin. They say the pair have been sweated and the sweat has produced interesting results.’

  ‘Do we know any more about these two?’ Bond’s brow creased.

  ‘Not a thing. The Foreign Office has not been informed of any British subjects missing, or detained, in Moscow or anywhere else. It’s under wraps, as our American cousins would say. The interesting thing is that Moscow believes the SoJ to be organised in non-intercognisant cells. The interrogation appears to have brought out a method of getting into the main Russian cell who are expecting a visit from two British members known only by cryptos.’

  ‘And they’re suggesting that Pete and I take the trip?’ Bond’s right eyebrow shot upwards.

  M nodded like a wise old Buddha. ‘Mmmm,’ he said.

  ‘But somebody, with all due respect, sir, somebody within the main Russian cell will be able to make a physical identification, surely?’

  ‘Mmmmm.’ M again made the sound of a happy bee on a sunny afternoon. He seemed oblivious to the unspoken peril. Then, ‘I did warn you, 007. I did say that this was a mite dangerous. If you want out, you only have to say.’

  ‘I’d personally like to know the chances of success.’ Bond rarely minded putting his life or career on the line, but he preferred to know the odds.

  M spread his hands. ‘If KGB are telling me the truth, and I have no real reason either to believe or disbelieve them, you’ll be monitored all the way. The idea appears to be that you’ll become stalking-horses. They will, I am promised, keep you under surveillance every inch of the journey.’

  ‘I’ve been known to throw KGB surveillance in the past.’

  ‘That you have, 007. But this time the trick will be to keep them with you.’ He turned to Natkowitz. ‘Are you willing to do this?’

  ‘I have little choice.’ Natkowitz did not look unhappy. ‘I volunteered in Tel Aviv. Once you do that in the Mossad, it is not wise to back down.’

  ‘James?’ M asked.

  ‘I have no choice either. Not really, sir, as you well know.’

  ‘Mmmmm.’ M again made his all purpose yes-no-maybe sound.

  ‘Is there a full briefing, sir? You said they wanted us quickly. Tonight?’

  M took his time answering. Then, ‘I think we might have to keep them waiting a little longer.’ His head bowed towards the Scrivener. ‘Brian, here, has to make up some new idents for you. Can’t have you going into Russia on the Boldman identity; you’ve used it too often. Also, we’ve taken on the chore of providing papers for Mr Natkowitz . . .’ He frowned, catching his breath, the words left unsaid.

  ‘Something else, sir?’ Bond could see it in the Old Man’s eyes.

  M nodded slowly. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. A minor something came up when we broke for Mr Natkowitz to call Tel Aviv. Could be nothing, on the other hand, it might just be an opportunity for the pair of you to begin working together. One evening should do it. That give you enough time, Scrivener?’

  Cogger did not talk much. It was said he believed words entrapped people. He had done it so many times on, and with, paper that he seemed to have lost the art of conversation. He nodded and added a handful of words which indicated he would need a half-hour with Pete Natkowitz. ‘Photographs, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Right.’ M rubbed his hands together vigorously, like someone going out into a cold morning. ‘Now to something completely different, as they say. It appears that we have visitors in town, or so Five tell me. Usually when our brothers-in-arms from other counterterrorist agencies come into the country, they tell us first, that is with the exception of your boys, Mr Natkowitz, no offence meant.’

  ‘None taken, sir.’

  ‘Well, this one’s very odd. Two French officers arrived in London this morning. One is a fairly senior member of GIGN; the other, a woman, is a field officer attached to DGSE.’3

  ‘We know both of them,’ M continued. ‘Henri Rampart, a major, and part of their quick deployment team, is a tough bird by any standard, a Russian speaker and no stranger to that country. The young woman, and she is young, 007, turns out to be Stephanie Adoré.’ He gave another of his tight-lipped smiles. ‘That’s also her real name, not some crypto thought up by whoever runs PR for DGSE. She spent two years as head of the French Moscow station. Also served in the Middle East, I . . .’

  ‘Not a couple getting away for a little fling, sir?’ Bond asked with an innocent deadpan face.

  ‘Contrary to the rumours spread abroad by novelists, and possibly yourself, 007, most intelligence and security services do not encourage interservice affairs. No, Rampart is happily married, and Ms Adoré, thoug
h attractive, has an exceptional record.’

  ‘Visit to their embassy, perhaps?’ Bond tried again.

  ‘No. There’s a strange connection. Neither of them have been in touch with the embassy. They arrived on different flights, Ms Adoré using a field identity, Charlotte Hironde, Rampart, the name Henri Rideaux. They are both staying, in separate rooms, 007, at the Hampshire, very expensive, off Leicester Square.’

  ‘So what’s the supposition, sir? Has it anything to do with Fallen Timbers?’

  ‘We have no idea, but it would give you and Mr Natkowitz an opportunity to work together. Get to know each other’s handwriting as it were. Ms Adoré visited the GIGN compound outside Paris for two days last week. It looked to our people like some kind of briefing. From another source we have information that their files on the Scales of Justice travelled up to the GIGN compound for that briefing. This very firm intelligence, coupled with these officers’ particular skills and their knowledge of Russia, indicates that they might just be thinking of hopping over to Moscow on a jaunt.’

  ‘A jaunt?’ Both Bond and Natkowitz spoke simultaneously.

  ‘For jaunt, read operation,’ M snapped. ‘I don’t think either of you would be happy about these people snooping around Dzerzhinsky Square while you’re there. They could be a real pair of flies in the ointment.’

  ‘Or Frogs in the ointment, sir.’

  M gave Bond a withering look. ‘That is a racist comment, Captain Bond, and you know how I feel about such remarks. Now, would you like to take a look? Get close to them this evening? I hear the food’s awfully good at the Hampshire’s Celebrities Restaurant.’ M wrinkled his nose with disgust at the name. ‘You know it, 007?’

  ‘In a vague sort of way, yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, perhaps when the Scrivener’s finished with Mr Natkowitz, you might wander over. Prise them from their rooms, give them a bite . . .’