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bribes.'
General G. skipped a page and went on:
`This man is invariably armed with a .25 Beretta automatic carried in a
holster under his left arm.
Magazine holds eight rounds. Has been known to carry a knife strapped to his
left forearm; has used steel-capped shoes; knows the basic holds of judo. In
general, fights with tenacity and has a high tolerance of pain (see Appendix
``B'').'
General G. riffled through more pages giving extracts from agents' reports
from which this data was drawn. He came to the last page before the Appendices
which gave details of the cases on which Bond had been encountered. He ran his
eye to the bottom and read out: `Conclusion. This man is a dangerous
professional terrorist and spy. He has worked for the British Secret Service
since 1938 and now (see
Highsmith file of December 1950) holds the secret number ``007'' in that
Service. The double 0 numerals signify an agent who has killed and who is
privileged to kill on active service. There are believed to be only two other
British agents with this authority. The fact that this spy was decorated with
the C.M.G. in
1953, an award usually given only on retirement from the Secret Service, is a
measure of his worth. If encountered in the field, the fact and full details
to be reported to headquarters (see SMERSH, M.G.B.
and G.R.U. Standing Orders 1951 onwards).'
General G. shut the file and slapped his hand decisively on the cover. `Well,
Comrades. Are we agreed?'
`Yes,' said Colonel Nikitin, loudly.
`Yes,' said General Slavin in a bored voice.
General Vozdvishensky was looking down at his fingernails. He was sick of
murder. He had enjoyed his time in England. `Yes,' he said. `I suppose so.'
General G.'s hand went to the internal office telephone. He spoke to his
A.D.C. `Death Warrant,' he said harshly. `Made out in the name of ``James
Bond''.' He spelled the names out. `Description: Angliski
Spion. Crime: Enemy of the State.' He put the receiver back and leant forward
in his chair. `And now it will be a question of devising an appropriate
konspiratsia. And one that cannot fail!' He smiled grimly.
`We cannot have another of those Khoklov affairs.'
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The door opened and the A.D.C. came in carrying a bright yellow sheet of
paper. He put it in front of
General G. and went out. General G. ran his eyes down the paper and wrote the
words. `To be killed.
Grubozaboyschikov' at the head of the large empty space at the bottom. He
passed the paper to the
M.G.B. man who read it and wrote `Kill him. Nikitin' and handed it across to
the head of G.R.U. who wrote `Kill him. Slavin'. One of the A.D.C.s passed the
paper to the plain-clothes man sitting beside the representative of R.U.M.I.D.
The man put it in front of General Vozdvishensky and handed him a pen.
General Vozdvishensky read the paper carefully. He raised his eyes slowly to
those of General G. who was watching him and, without looking down, scribbled
the `Kill him' more or less under the other signatures and scrawled his name
after it. Then he took his hands away from the paper and got to his feet.
`If that is all, Comrade General?' he pushed his chair back.
General G. was pleased. His instincts about this man had been right. He would
have to put a watch on him and pass on his suspicions to General Serov. `One
moment, Comrade General,' he said. `I have
something to add to the warrant.'
The paper was handed up to him. He took out his pen and scratched out what he
had written. He wrote again, speaking the words slowlyas he did so.
`To be killed WITH IGNOMINY. Grubozaboyschikov.'
He looked up and smiled pleasantly to the company. `Thank you, Comrades. That
is all. I shall advise you of the decision of the Praesidium on our
recommendation. Good night.'
* * *
When the conference had filed out, General G. rose to his feet and stretched
and gave a loud controlled yawn. He sat down again at his desk, switched off
the wire-recorder and rang for his A.D.C. The man came in and stood beside his
desk.
General G. handed him the yellow paper. `Send this over to General Serov at
once. Find out where
Kronsteen is and have him fetched by car. I don't care if he's in bed. He will
have to come. Otdyel II will know where to find him. And I will see Colonel
Klebb in ten minutes.'
`Yes, Comrade General.' The man left the room.
General G. picked up the V.Ch. receiver and asked for General Serov. He spoke
quietly for five minutes. At the end he concluded: `And I am now about to give
the task to Colonel Klebb and the
Planner, Kronsteen. We will discuss the outlines of a suitable konspiratsia
and they will give me detailed proposals tomorrow. Is that in order, Comrade
General?'
`Yes,' came the quiet voice of General Serov of the High Praesidium. `Kill
him. But let it be excellently accomplished. The Praesidium will ratify the
decision in the morning.'
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The line went dead. The inter-office telephone rang. General G. said `Yes'
into the receiver and put it
back.
A moment later the A.D.C. opened the big door and stood in the entrance.
`Comrade Colonel Klebb,'
he announced.
A toad-like figure in an olive green uniform which bore the single red ribbon
of the Order of Lenin came into the room and walked with quick short steps
over to the desk.
General G. looked up and waved to the nearest chair at the conference table.
`Good evening, Comrade.'
The squat face split into a sugary smile. `Good evening, Comrade General.'
The Head of Otdyel II, the department of SMERSH in charge of Operations and
Executions, hitched up her skirts and sat down.
Chapter Seven
The Wizard of Ice
The two faces of the double clock in the shiny, domed case looked out across
the chess-board like the eyes of some huge sea monster that had peered over
the edge of the table to watch the game.
The two faces of the chess clock showed different times. Kronsteen's showed
twenty minutes to one.
The long red pendulum that ticked off the seconds was moving in its staccato
sweep across the bottom half of his clock's face, while the enemy clock was
silent and its pendulum motionless down the face. But
Makharov's clock said five minutes to one. He had wasted time in the middle of
the game and he now had only five minutes to go. He was in bad `time-trouble'
and unless Kronsteen made some lunatic mistake, which was unthinkable, he was
beaten.
Kronsteen sat motionless and erect, as malevolently inscrutable as a parrot.
His elbows were on the
table and his big head rested on clenched fists that pressed into his cheeks,
squashing the pursed lips into a pout of hauteur and disdain. Under the wide, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]