‘Uh-huh.’ Bond nodded, glancing towards Pete Natkowitz who seemed to be amused by the whole business. As Stephanie Adoré hit them with the news that the French had abducted Josif Vorontsov from Florida, Natkowitz had simply thrown back his head, mouth open in a silent laugh.
The French girl had the knack of delivering tidings which were neither comforting nor joyous, like someone cracking a walnut with a sledgehammer. Her sweet, tinkling manner was the velvet glove surrounding a steel fist. Stephanie Adoré, the name went through Bond’s head. Stevedore, he thought automatically.
‘Where the hell’re you holding him . . . ?’ Bond began, edgy and annoyed. But Natkowitz’s amused restraint was a calming influence. Instead he smiled. ‘You obviously did very well. Forgive me, but, if you have Vorontsov safe, what’re you doing here? And why the visit to London?’
‘Because we had a problem here. With Vorontsov.’ Stepakov spread his hands as if to indicate that this answer was enough.
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘Okay.’ Stepakov inclined his head towards Stephanie.
‘You’re familiar with hostage-taking techniques?’ She was telling Bond, not asking him. ‘In the situation we had with Vorontsov it was essential to get his confidence. To begin with we had him doped up to the eyeballs. You see, we had no clandestine way to get him out of the country. He had to walk, come of his own volition. No restraints. Just like Adolf Eichmann with the Israeli snatch team in 1960.’
Bond recalled that when the Israelis had lifted Adolf Eichmann, one of the main instigators of the monstrous Nazi Holocaust, from Argentina to stand trial in Israel, they had persuaded him to walk out to an El Al scheduled flight disguised as a flight attendant.
‘Yes.’ He indicated that Stephanie should continue.
‘I don’t need to give you all the technicalities, but we drugged him initially. After that it was my job to be his friend, to reassure him and make certain he was not overanxious.’ She gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘This, of course, meant lying a great deal. Telling him that no harm would come to him. Making him totally pliable.’
Bond again made a little gesture to show he understood. Indeed he did. He knew the ways of hostage-takers and political kidnappers. You either scared the victim out of his wits or you made him feel at home. As a rule one person did exactly what Stephanie had been instructed to do, and should the victim have to be killed, it was usually the trusted one who did the killing. ‘So you did all that, obviously. You got him to do as you wanted.’
‘But of course. He even followed Eichmann’s footsteps. We all walked on to an Aeroflot jet dressed as flight attendants. It was very easy.’
‘So, why are you here now?’
‘There was a small problem. Bory . . . ?’ She appealed to Stepakov.
The exaggerated clown’s smile. ‘For obvious reasons we did not want to have Vorontsov sedated. Who knew when we might need him? Stephanie handed over her duties to Nina. Things didn’t work out.’
‘You see, it’s like a psychiatrist and a patient,’ Stephanie chimed in. ‘What do they call it . . . ?’
‘Transference,’ Bond supplied. ‘When a patient has so much trust in a psychiatrist that he becomes completely dependent. If it’s a difference of sexes, the patient often persuades himself, or herself, that he’s in love with the shrink.’
‘Right. Happened just like you say,’ Boris Stepakov sounded excited.
‘I was removed,’ Stephanie looked pleased with herself. ‘He pined for me, poor monster. Wouldn’t accept Nina. Even tried to attack her.’
‘Was very difficult,’ Stepakov made gestures with his hands as though miming a great physical problem. ‘Nina came to me. She couldn’t deal with it, so she suggested we bring Stephanie back.’
‘And Henri came for the ride?’
‘I came as muscle, Stephanie’s minder, as you’d say.’ Rampart did not even look in Bond’s direction.
‘Mmmm.’ Bond still did not sound completely happy.
‘James,’ Mlle Adoré’s voice dipped seductively. ‘It was a kind of contract operation. We were hired. Money in the bank.’
‘Mice,’ Bond muttered, and they all knew what he meant. Mice was the English acronym used by all intelligence communities to indicate the four principle motivations of espionage agents: Money, Ideology, Compromise or Ego. The French had been attracted to the operation by money. It was often the strongest motive these days.
‘Why London? Why did you . . . ?’ Bond began. But at that moment the door opened, the screen slid back and Alex returned with a short, thin-faced man who had dusty-looking hair and wore spectacles.
‘Come in, Vladi. Welcome.’ Stepakov pushed back the chair and opened his arms to embrace the newcomer.
9
LYKO’S LITTLE ADVENTURE
Stepakov’s effusive greeting and his previous description left none of them in any doubt that the man brought in by Alex was Vladimir Lyko. Indeed, he was almost a caricature of an academic: for one thing, his shabby jacket had leather patches on the elbows, the Western badge of office within the groves of academia. His whole appearance was untidy, a person divorced from the real world, small, cowed, a grey man. Yes, Bond realised, this was the archetypal grey man – the ideal spy – one who had difficulty in catching a waiter’s eye. That was the old definition of the perfect agent. So here he was, the immaculate dissembler, moving into the room.
As Stepakov embraced him, the professor seemed to shrink back as though embarrassed by this show of affection, and his eyes bore that restless quality associated with someone who has suddenly been released from the prison of a library, the jail of study, and is now blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight of the real world.
‘My former prisoner,’ Stepakov boomed, all his heartiness up and operating at full strength, the lick of hair falling across his forehead, the long, clownish face frozen in a look of surprise, eyebrows arched and mouth split like a watermelon segment. ‘My former prisoner, now my long-term penetration agent within Chushi Pravosudia.’ He gave everyone the benefit of the major smile, ushering the small, nervous figure on to centre stage, talking as he did so. ‘Professor Vladi Lyko has much to say. You will be given a chance to question him afterwards, but you, Captain Bond, and you, Pete Newman,’ pause and a laugh, finger stabbing the air in their general direction, ‘you should realise his is the only true briefing you will receive. He has the answers, if you have the questions.’
The dusty-haired little professor cleared his throat, hands moving forward as though to arrange lecture notes on an invisible lectern. When he realised there were neither notes nor lectern, he dropped his arms and, for a few seconds, did not know what to do with his hands. He cleared his throat a second time, then started in with a confidence that seemed at odds with his appearance. He spoke in English, clear and precise, with the hint of a South London accent.
‘General Stepakov will have told you part of my story,’ he began, glancing up, his eyes almost glowering and challenging the assembled company. ‘I was a fool who wanted material gain offered to me by the Scales of Justice. When my folly was revealed, it became clear that my country, and the Party, would be best served by my working undercover.
‘Let me first explain what the general has probably hinted at. Chushi Pravosudia is a truly cunning group. In my time working for them, I have yet actually to meet another senior member of their controlling body face to face.