They herded Ian at gunpoint down a long and narrow stair, Arev in front and the two Nazi agents behind him, with Zadiq bringing up the rear. Zadiq had placed two of his most trusted subordinates between Ian and the Germans, to prevent them from acting together on a whim. Ian’s hands were bound behind him.
Of Siranoush, there was no sign. Would she even be told what they’d done with him? Or would Zadiq say Commander Bond had turned tail and run back to Egypt like a coward?
The staircase ended at a door that led out into an alley. It seemed to be used for donkeys and camels unloading goods in the bowels of the bazaar. There was a nose-curling stench of animal urine, feces, and rotting hay. A truck covered with a tarpaulin completely filled one end of the narrow space.
He was forced into the back of the lorry along with the Germans and two of the NKVD men. It was pitch-black until one of Zadiq’s people placed an oil lamp between himself and the edge of the lorry opening. The double doors were then swung closed and bolted from outside.
Ian studied the other four faces. The Germans kept their heads down. The gray-haired one was twitching faintly.
Zadiq and Arev were driving.
Ian thrust his back up against the lorry wall and felt the vibration of the engine roll throughout his body. His hands were going numb. The taut position of his right shoulder blade should have been excruciating. He realized, however, that his knife wound was slowly healing. The thought gave him a flicker of hope.
The lorry lurched and rolled forward.
“Where are we going?” he asked aloud.
Zadiq’s men did not answer. But the gray-haired German glanced up at Ian briefly. He understood English. Or perhaps he was simply expecting Ian to speak German, as he had in the man’s cell. That gave Ian an idea.
“Wie heißen Sie?” he asked.
“Erich,” the other said. “Und Sie?”
“James.”
“Engländer.”
“Yes,” he agreed, in the man’s tongue. Zadiq’s guards failed to react, but they were watching the conversation all the same. “Any idea where we’re going?”
Erich shrugged. “I am thinking it is to the safe house. Where we told the paratroopers to come. We will be expected to welcome them so that all looks correct. So they do not suspicion anything.”
“You’ve been there before?”
“But yes.” He smiled mirthlessly. “It was my house, you see, before we were taken by these russische Schweine.”
Of course. Zadiq had intercepted Erich’s communications, tracked where they came from, and arrested him with his partner.
That partner—whose accent had sounded vaguely East European to Ian—was staring at him now. “I thought you were one of them,” he said. “Not cattle like us. Maybe you still are one of them—put back here to spy. Don’t talk to him, Erich. It’s a trick.”
“I wish it were.” Ian studied the man warily. “Where is this safe house of yours?”
“In the southern part of the city.” Erich shot his partner a look. “It is nothing, Tomàš. If he were with them, he would know this, already.”
Tomàš. The man was Czech. Possibly of Sudeten origin, if he had joined the Nazis. And they were all headed south—farther away from the British Embassy and its targets.
“Do you know when your friends are expected to come down from the hills?”
“We were told to say 2200.”
“Erich!” hissed Tomàš. “Shut up, you fool!”
“He would know,” Erich repeated patiently. “If he is one of them, I am telling nothing of importance. And if he is not—still I am telling nothing. We gave them directions. Bona fides. They will not suspect.”
His voice died away on these last few words, and he dropped his head again. Erich obviously was haunted by his multiple betrayals. At the way he was saving himself, by luring these men to their deaths.
War is bloody, Ian thought. But he felt a distaste for Tomàš and Erich, regardless. They probably had thought it would be easy to sell a few secrets to Zadiq. Play both sides of the field. Wait for the Germans or the Russians to come out on top. They were agents in Occupied Persia, after all—and anyone with a secret to sell was a fool not to seek the highest bidder.
But this couldn’t be easy.
It was cold-blooded murder.
And they didn’t have the comfort of viewing the paratroopers as enemies. Like Ian did.
He turned his head slightly and studied the most vigilant of the NKVD escort. He was slightly older than the boy Arev—in his twenties, perhaps—with closely cropped black hair and a nose that had been frequently broken. His left fingers were stained yellow by nicotine, but his gun barely wavered in his right hand, despite the lurching lorry. He’d let Ian and Erich talk freely. Which meant he wanted to hear what they had to say.
There are three of you and only two of them. When the lorry stops, 007, kick out with your legs and smash the oil lamp. Utter darkness. Flame, perhaps, on the NKVD agent’s leg. He’s shrieking. His men are fighting. Your hands aren’t free, but your head is. Use your weight and height. Use your skull if you must. When the door is unbolted, leap out into Zadiq’s face.
And then?
He’d be shot to death.
Or he’d hobble away into an unknown part of the city, an obviously escaped prisoner with no Farsi to his name. He’d be arrested and eventually turned over to the British Embassy, if he lived so long.
Roll the dice either way, he’d be shut out of Zadiq’s plans. No paratroopers. No idea when the Fencer meant to kill Churchill and the others.
Unacceptable.
He leaned back against the lorry wall and closed his eyes.
—
SIRANOUSH HAD washed her hair and dressed carefully for this meeting. She was wearing a frock she’d admired in Cairo; Nazir had bought it and given it to her as a gift. It was silk and very dear—silk was almost impossible to obtain, now that there was war. Except for a dealer in precious antiquities. A man who knew the value of every material that came under his hand. A man who knew how to haggle for what was precious.
Nazir had haggled for her, she thought, as he might have for a fragment of Nefertiti’s head unearthed in the Egyptian sand. She had never been his granddaughter and he knew nothing really about her, but he had found her in the NKVD camp in Yerevan, a scrawny orphan of fourteen, and coveted her like the collector he was. Like a man with an eye for perfection.
He had given her a new name once he bought her. Siranoush. It meant Creature of Beauty in Armenian.
She could barely remember being anyone else.
She thought of the old man now with vague nostalgia and not a little hatred. As was true of some connoisseurs, Nazir was inclined to peculiar tastes. Siranoush had fulfilled all of them. Fantasies. Crudities. He had enjoyed each infinitesimal variation, and had enjoyed most, perhaps, the perversions from which he rescued her himself. The time he had tied her wrists and ankles to a bed in a suite at Shepheard’s Hotel, and then sent a series of strangers in to ravish her. The time he had sold her in a game of cards to a man whose throat he cut just at climax. He liked to think of himself as God: Creator, Seducer, Rapist, and Savior.
Father, Son, Virgin, and Holy Ghost.
She was glad he was dead.
But she wondered, now, if she still existed.
Without the old man’s eyes on her, she felt increasingly invisible. Remote behind opaque glass, beating her hands to break out.
She smoothed the silk over her hips and sighed. Then she bit her lips to bring color to the flesh—strange, how pain animated everything—and went down into the bazaar.
—
MICHAEL HUDSON idled among the perfume bottles. Grace had said the Perfume Hall—he was sure of it. But maybe she was smarter than he thought. Maybe she’d lied to him on purpose.
He thought fleetingly of the earnest face, drowning in the dusk of the Soviet garden. No. Gracie didn’t lie.
He smiled faintly as he considered her. She wore her heart on her sleeve. He excited her—in ways she couldn’t fathom, and probably couldn’t trust. And so she said more than she should. She’d told him Ian was operating alone and was in civilian clothes. Nobody from the embassy behind him. He was out on a wire, teetering above the ground, and the slightest push would send him plummeting to earth.
Michael had known Ian long enough to appreciate his uncanny grace. His extraordinary luck. His facile charm. He could slip through fingers, balance on any tightrope, land on his feet like a cat. But there was a limit to nine lives.
Michael needed to find Ian. Before he hurt himself or anyone else.
Commander Fleming ought to be watching the bazaar right now. All Hudson had to do was show up. Look obvious. Wait for Ian to stroll over and say: I told you Averell Harriman was a wrong’un from the start.
Only it was not Ian whose heels were clicking swiftly toward him across the ancient mosaic floors. With the sixth sense of the born spy, he turned just as the girl launched herself into his arms.
“Darling!” she cried, kissing him full on the mouth.
He was aware of a ripe body pressing against his. His groin surged to life. He stared dazedly into the flowerlike face hovering beneath his own.
“It’s been so long!” she breathed. “And I’ve been so lonely. Tell me you’ve missed your Siranoush!”
—
HE TOOK HER out to the street and began walking, aimlessly, toward the Shah’s empty palace. She stared straight ahead, the darkness punctuated by passing lights, her face sporadically illuminated. Her hair was a river of platinum. She was a magnificent creature, Hudson thought. And totally uncontrollable. He would have to work carefully.
“Siranoush,” he said aloud, savoring the word. “Don’t you think it was ill advised to approach me in such a public place, in such a headlong manner? I enjoyed it immensely—don’t get me wrong, but—”
“I do not understand this headlong,” she said impatiently. “You are looking for Bond, yes?”
“You know him?”
“We made contact in Cairo. The night he was attacked. You knew he was attacked, yes?”
“I heard. Eventually. Also that he was ordered to return home.”
“He flew with me to Tehran instead.”
“He would.” Hudson pressed his fingers against his eyes, feeling a dull throb of pain at his temples. “Military transport would never do—it’d have to be hot and cold running blondes. Have you been with him ever since?”
She shrugged dismissively. “He was taken away tonight. By my people.”
“Taken? Where?”
“I do not know. They no longer trust me.”
“Because you’ve been with . . . Bond?” he guessed. “You’re tainted by association?”
She gave a little shrug, her eyes still not meeting his. “It is not important. What matters is that you find him.”
“I thought we were all supposed to be Allies,” he muttered in frustration. “What do your people want with my friend?”
“Something to do with codes. Intercepts.”
Turing, he thought. “German codes?”
“Probably.” She glanced at him. “I do not think they mean to kill Bond. Not yet. But they will hurt him until he gives them what they want. And then . . . They took two German agents, too. Radio operators.”
“Why?”
“Long Jump,” she said. “They are to ambush a group of paratroopers who have been hiding in the hills.”
Hudson’s brows shot up. “And these Nazis have no idea their friends have been turned. So tonight . . .”
“The German radio operators will lure six men to their deaths. In order to save your President’s life.”
Hudson laughed brusquely. “So your people, as you call them, have known all along where the last few commandos were. Not exactly the briefing Molotov gave us. Just goes to show. Never trust a Russian.”
“Then it is just as well I am Armenian.” She flashed a rare smile. “Bond thinks Stalin and the others will die, whether we trap the paratroopers or not. He is sure the Fencer will go ahead with his plan—he is a member of the delegations, and has perfect access to his targets. How can he fail?”
“It’d be a first,” Hudson admitted.
If he was startled by her casual use of a code name few people knew, he did not betray it. “Why was Bond taken prisoner tonight? He’s no threat to your people.”
“A disagreement. Bond wants to use the paratroopers as bait. Let them launch their operation—and follow them to the real leader.”
“The Fencer.” How like Flem, Hudson thought. Ian had stumbled stupidly into a snare—and nobody in his chain of command had any idea where he was. He’d made himself a hostage. He was a liability to Britain now. Whether he divulged anything about Turing or the codes Siranoush had mentioned, Naval Intelligence would cut him loose.
Unless Ian could pull off the impossible.
Trap the Fencer. Save three critical lives.
They had reached the empty gardens of Golestan Palace, and Hudson’s feet slowed. Should he tell somebody at the British Embassy what he knew—or keep Ian’s secrets?
“He has courage, this Bond,” the girl said with a trace of wistfulness. “But he is naïve. It is very English, yes? To be forever the schoolboy?”
“It is.” Hudson grasped her arm. In her frail silk dress, she was shuddering with the November cold. And something else. Fear?
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll find him.”
—
THE GERMAN named Erich was passive, Ian knew—he seemed to accept his fate as the lorry rolled to a stop in the darkness. But it surprised him that the Czech, Tomàš, was equally resigned. Tomàš was younger. More impassioned. A truer believer, Ian guessed, in Hitler’s cause. If anybody was going to be a hero tonight, it would be Tomàš. But as the heavy steel doors were unbolted by unseen hands, the Czech merely studied the lorry floor. One of the guards had forced him to kneel, hands bound behind his back.
The other guard had his gun trained on Ian.
The doors swung open. Arev’s pinched face, peering above the edge, and Zadiq behind him. His Nagant covered all of them.
“Aussteigen,” Arev barked. Get out.
Tomàš was hauled to his feet and forced to descend. Then it was Ian’s turn. He thrust himself upright by levering his bound hands against the lorry wall; he refused to be tossed around like a swaddled baby. A maniac in a straitjacket.
A helpless hostage.
He moved at a crouch toward the lorry opening. He could see very little of the street beyond; the southern part of the city was generally impoverished, the houses small and leaning together along fetid alleyways. There was a strong smell of cat. A hand grasped his left shoulder; he was pulled off the lorry and landed hard, on his left side, on the ground. It was unpaved mud, wet and stinking against his cheek. Someone kicked him in the ass. He tried to roll to his feet and was hauled upright, struggling. They would fight his impulse toward self-sufficiency as soundly as open rebellion.
He was hustled a short distance through a door. Tomàš was standing in what looked like a kitchen, head bowed, Zadiq a few paces away. Behind Zadiq was the welling blackness of a doorway; the only light in the room was from the head guard’s oil lamp. Ian was thrust toward the kitchen table and stumbled into it. Arev or one of the guards had pushed him, and he wondered, idly, if they hated him because he was English, or because of Siranoush?
Where was she now?
Erich jostled him and fell heavily onto the table.
“Warten Sie,” he breathed.
Wait.
Ian did not betray that he had heard.
The door of the safe house closed behind them.
And at that moment, a face loomed out of the darkened doorway behind Zadiq and a rifle was punched forcefully into his back.
On impulse, Ian shoved himself sideways and felt Arev tumble to the floor. Swearing in Armenian.
Tomàš slammed his skull into the nearest guard’s nose. The man fell back, howling in pain. And there were other faces now, rolling through the doorway, bodies in field dress and helmets with rifles raised.
Nazi paratroopers.
“Lassen Sie Ihre Waffe,” one of them commanded.
Zadiq dropped his gun. His black eyes glittered and his teeth were bared in a grimace. He was not the kind, Ian thought, to go quietly.
“Your friends?” he murmured to Erich.
“Ja. We were supposed to tell them to be here at 2200 hours. But we told them twenty-one. We thought they would like time to prepare.”
His voice held the satisfaction of a simple man.