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‘Y*b**nna mat!’ The gross obscenity was a favourite with General G. His hand slapped down on the desk. ‘Comrade, there certainly is “a man called Bond” as you put it.’ His voice was sarcastic. ‘James Bond. [He pronounced it “Shems”.] And nobody, myself included, could think of this spy’s name! We are indeed forgetful. No wonder the Intelligence apparat is under criticism.’

General Vozdvishensky felt he should defend himself and his department. ‘There are countless enemies of the Soviet Union, Comrade General,’ he protested, ‘If I want their names, I send to the Central Index for them. Certainly I know the name of this Bond. He has been a great trouble to us at different times. But today my mind is full of other names—names of people who are causing us trouble today, this week. I am interested in football, but I cannot remember the name of every foreigner who has scored a goal against the Dynamos.’

‘You are pleased to joke, Comrade,’ said General G. to underline this out-of-place comment. ‘This is a serious matter. I for one admit my fault in not remembering the name of this notorious agent. Comrade Colonel Nikitin will no doubt refresh our memories further, but I recall that this Bond has at least twice frustrated the operations of smersh. That is,’ he added, ‘before I assumed control of the department. There was this affair in France, at that Casino town. The man Le Chiffre. An excellent leader of the Party in France. He foolishly got into some money troubles. But he would have got out of them if this Bond had not interfered. I recall that the Department had to act quickly and liquidate the Frenchman. The executioner should have dealt with the Englishman at the same time, but he did not. Then there was this Negro of ours in Harlem. A great man—one of the greatest foreign agents we have ever employed, and with a vast network behind him. There was some business about a treasure in the Caribbean. I forget the details. This Englishman was sent out by the Secret Service and smashed the whole organization and killed our man. It was a great reverse. Once again my predecessor should have proceeded ruthlessly against this English spy.’

Colonel Nikitin broke in. ‘We had a similar experience in the case of the German, Drax, and the rocket. You will recall the matter, Comrade General. A most important konspiratsia. The General Staff were deeply involved. It was a matter of High Policy which could have borne decisive fruit. But again it was this Bond who frustrated the operation. The German was killed. There were grave consequences for the State. There followed a period of serious embarrassment which was only solved with difficulty.’

General Slavin of GRU felt that he should say something. The rocket had been an Army operation and its failure had been laid at the door of GRU. Nikitin knew this perfectly well. As usual MGB was trying to make trouble for GRU—raking up old history in this manner. ‘We asked for this man to be dealt with by your department, Comrade Colonel,’ he said icily. ‘I cannot recall that any action followed our request. If it had, we should not now be having to bother with him.’

Colonel Nikitin’s temples throbbed with rage. He controlled himself. ‘With due respect, Comrade General,’ he said in a loud, sarcastic voice, ‘the request of GRU was not confirmed by Higher Authority. Further embarrassment with England was not desired. Perhaps that detail has slipped your memory. In any case, if such a request had reached MGB, it would have been referred to smersh for action.’

‘My department received no such request,’ said General G. sharply. ‘Or the execution of this man would have rapidly followed. However, this is no time for historical researches. The rocket affair was three years ago. Perhaps the MGB could tell us of the more recent activities of this man.’

Colonel Nikitin whispered hurriedly with his aide. He turned back to the table. ‘We have very little further information, Comrade General,’ he said defensively. ‘We believe that he was involved in some diamond smuggling affair. That was last year. Between Africa and America. The case did not concern us. Since then we have no further news of him. Perhaps there is more recent information on his file.’

General G. nodded. He picked up the receiver of the telephone nearest to him. This was the so-called Kommandant Telefon of the MGB. All lines were direct and there was no central switchboard. He dialled a number. ‘Central Index? Here General Grubozaboyschikov. The zapiska of “Bond”—English spy. Emergency.’ He listened for the immediate ‘At once, Comrade General,’ and put back the receiver. He looked down the table with authority. ‘Comrades, from many points of view this spy sounds an appropriate target. He appears to be a dangerous enemy of the State. His liquidation will be of benefit to all departments of our Intelligence apparat. Is that so?’

The conference grunted.

‘Also his loss will be felt by the Secret Service. But will it do more? Will it seriously wound them? Will it help to destroy this myth about which we have been speaking? Is this man a hero to his organization and his country?’

General Vozdvishensky decided that this question was intended for him. He spoke up. ‘The English are not interested in heroes unless they are footballers or cricketers or jockeys. If a man climbs a mountain or runs very fast he also is a hero to some people, but not to the masses. The Queen of England is also a hero, and Churchill. But the English are not greatly interested in military heroes. This man Bond is unknown to the public. If he was known, he would still not be a hero. In England, neither open war nor secret war is a heroic matter. They do not like to think about war, and after a war the names of their war heroes are forgotten as quickly as possible. Within the Secret Service, this man may be a local hero or he may not. It will depend on his appearance and personal characteristics. Of these I know nothing. He may be fat and greasy and unpleasant. No one makes a hero out of such a man, however successful he is.’

Nikitin broke in. ‘English spies we have captured speak highly of this man. He is certainly much admired in his Service. He is said to be a lone wolf, but a good-looking one.’

The internal office telephone purred softly. General G. lifted the receiver, listened briefly and said, ‘Bring it in.’ There was a knock on the door. The ADC came in carrying a bulky file in cardboard covers. He crossed the room and placed the file on the desk in front of the General and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

The file had a shiny black cover. A thick white stripe ran diagonally across it from top right-hand corner to bottom left. In the top left-hand space there were the letters ‘S.S.’ in white, and under them ‘sovershenno sekretno’, the equivalent of ‘Top Secret’. Across the centre was neatly painted in white letters ‘james bond’, and underneath ‘Angliski Spion’.

General G. opened the file and took out a large envelope containing photographs which he emptied on to the glass surface of the desk. He picked them up one by one. He looked closely at them, sometimes through a magnifying glass which he took out of a drawer, and passed them across the desk to Nikitin who glanced at them and handed them on.

The first was dated 1946. It showed a dark young man sitting at a table outside a sunlit café. There was a tall glass beside him on the table and a soda-water siphon. The right forearm rested on the table and there was a cigarette between the fingers of the right hand that hung negligently down from the edge of the table. The legs were crossed in that attitude that only an Englishman adopts—with the right ankle resting on the left knee and the left hand grasping the ankle. It was a careless pose. The man didn’t know that he was being photographed from a point about twenty feet away.

The next was dated 1950. It was a face and shoulders, blurred, but of the same man. It was a close-up and Bond was looking with careful, narrowed eyes at something, probably the photographer’s face, just above the lens. A miniature buttonhole camera, guessed General G.

The third was from 1951. Taken from the left flank, quite close, it showed the same man in a dark suit, without a hat, walking down a wide empty street. He was passing a shuttered shop whose sign said ‘Charcuterie’. He looked as if he was going somewhere urgently. The clean-cut profile was pointing straight ahead and the crook of the right elbow suggested that his right hand was in the pocket of his coat. General G. reflected that it was probably taken from a car. He thought that the decisive look of the man, and the purposeful slant of his striding figure, looked dangerous, as if he was making quickly for something bad that was happening further down the street.

The fourth and last photograph was marked Passe. 1953. The corner of the Royal Seal and the letters ‘... reign office’ in the segment of a circle showed in the bottom right-hand corner. The photograph, which had been blown up to cabinet size, must have been made at a frontier, or by the concierge of an hotel when Bond had surrendered his passport. General G. carefully went over the face with his magnifying glass.

It was a dark, clean-cut face, with a three-inch scar showing whitely down the sun-burned skin of the right cheek. The eyes were wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. The hair was black, parted on the left, and carelessly brushed so that a thick black comma fell down over the right eyebrow. The longish straight nose ran down to a short upper lip below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth. The line of the jaw was straight and firm. A section of dark suit, white shirt and black knitted tie completed the picture.

General G. held the photograph out at arm’s length. Decision, authority, ruthlessness—these qualities he could see. He didn’t care what else went on inside the man. He passed the photograph down the table and turned to the file, glancing rapidly down each page and flipping brusquely on to the next.

The photographs came back to him. He kept his place with a finger and looked briefly up. ‘He looks a nasty customer,’ he said grimly. ‘His story confirms it. I will read out some extracts. Then we must decide. It is getting late.’ He turned back to the first page and began to rattle off the points that struck him.

‘First name: james. Height: 183 centimetres, weight: 76 kilograms; slim build; eyes: blue; hair: black; scar down right cheek and on left shoulder; signs of plastic surgery on back of right hand (see Appendix “A”); all-round athlete; expert pistol shot, boxer, knife-thrower; does not use disguises. Languages: French and German. Smokes heavily (NB: special cigarettes with three gold bands); vices: drink, but not to excess, and women. Not thought to accept 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 CMG 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 MGB and GRU 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 ADC. ‘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.’

The door opened and the ADC 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 MGB man who read it and wrote Kill him. Nikitin and handed it across to the head of GRU who wrote Kill him. Slavin. One of the ADCs passed the paper to the plain-clothes man sitting beside the representative of RUMID. 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 slowly as 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 ADC. 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 VCh 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.’

The line went dead. The inter-office telephone rang. General G. said ‘Yes’ into the receiver and put it back.

A moment later the ADC 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.