Chapter Ten

Operation Cowslip (1986) Part III (or 0.5 continued)

The office was situated, in fact, it gave the illusion of suspension, overlooking one of the lesser laboratories where special hazard suits were not required. Colonel Ourumov would not be bothered going through a decontamination ritual every time he retired to his official sanction over Arkangel operations. His convenience was to be looked after, and indeed, much like the confines of his nook, the office space looked to Bond like a smaller rendition of M's at Universal Exports. The walls had been made to look like wood grain (it might actually have been genuine) despite being surrounded on all sides by metal roof paneling. More than a tad ostentatious for one Soviet Colonel looking after toxic waste. The door was tarpaulin for God's sake. And the smell, like bleach, stung in the insides of his mouth and nose. How Ourumov could enjoy a drink, Bond didn't know. It was a colossal waste of La Maison Whisky. But, then again, this was not a pleasurable exchange or a glass tipped in celebration.

Bond and the Colonel sat across a desk from one another as two officers might meet for a briefing, a bull session, or dinner plans (perhaps all points in-between). Bond kept his hands plainly visible in his lap. His hardhat had been discarded somewhere between the factory assembly and the lab below. He was armed and could reach his weapon (an angry little PPK) before the Russian could palm so much as the shame between his legs. That wasn't going to happen, Bond knew, of course. Ourumov had been well scouted for his love of 'life,' and his indulgence in it was well known by the right people. He would take the deal.

The desk was dark, clean, and polite, smartly maintained by military discipline. Usually, the only permanent residents were a small metal basket for papers that were scheduled to leave his sight, a banker's lamp, and a leather blotter two shades lighter than the desk's finish. Today, those accouterments were accompanied by a decanter (the libation on offer a spirit from the La Maison du Whisky in Paris right around the corner from Madeleine Church), the decanter's very large, square head, and the contents of the dubious inspector's clipboard.

There were pages. There was a small stack of these leaves that had been gently set aside. These were Bond's forged, but well-manufactured documentation identifying him as Captain Lakov Ivanov, which had been designed only to get him through the front door, so to speak. Once inside, his way out was up to the mound being gloomily perused by Ourumov. Bond could already read the resignation in other man's gaze. Ourumov sipped his beverage absently, but steadily. He refused to be the one who broke the silence.

Bond did it for him. To Double-O Seven's credit, he respected the gravity of the moment. The documents (some of them were pictures) sealed the man's fate. Bond spoke without inflection. "Do you need it explained to you? I can do that for you."

Ourumov scoffed. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

The hard way, then. "Shall we talk about Andrey, your father."

"Excuse me," Ourumov withheld a bark, and it caused his voice to crack, like a man who has been caught red-handed by the police and begins to panic. For a moment, Bond thought he saw a desperate mania enter the man's flushed countenance, but it extinguished itself if it had ever been there. "My father's name was Grigor. Your precious MI6 could figure that much, yes? Grigorovich is my middle name. Or need I translate it for you? That's Gregory, in English, I believe."

"Grigor, yes. That's the name your mother knew him by," Bond said, unchanged. "And at least the name you used for him when she was around, but you knew. It's all there in front of you. His name was Andrey when he collaborated with the Nazis. You knew before she did. But when she found out-"

Ourumov raised his free hand.

Bond quieted, but when the Russian showed no sign of further contribution, he continued, albeit around a different corner. "Hilfswilliger, a RONA soldier under the flag of St. Andrew. Your mother-"

"My mother loved him." Ourumov was distant, sluggish. A wave of inebriation swept him.

"Is that why she poisoned him?"

"No." The retorted sounded off a little too loud for both men's comfort.

"And what about the shining star of the School of Applied Military Science, who paid off the right people for his mother's committal and drugging. She still managed lucidity every now and again until the end, Arkady. She spoke of your father, and when she did, there were ears that heard and wires that recorded. We traced him, Arkady."

Ourumov wanted to know how he had obtained that information, but it didn't really matter. It was true, and it meant a death sentence if he were exposed. "What do you want, Bond?"

"Let's talk about our mutual friend, who is visiting in a few days. You're quite close, you and Alec Trevelyan. You both have fathers who fought in the name of the Reich."

Trevelyan's fate was sealed before he ever touched boots on ground.

Next chapter: Operation Cowslip (1986) Part IV