Ian Fleming's James Bond 007 in:
Tales of Her Majesty’s Secret Service #1
Death To Spies--part I
By Ross Sidor
The small London park was quiet, as it normally is at this hour, just ten minutes past midnight, and the surrounding streets were void of traffic except for the odd car passing by, usually belonging to someone who was unfortunate enough to get stuck working the late shift at their places of employment. Not even the sound of the small animals that make the park their home could be heard. It was an almost eerie calm and quiet that occupied the perimeter. But not all went completely soundless. No, coming from deep within the park’s wooded area there came a barely audible, evenly paced tapping each time the man’s booted foot touched down on the stone path as he kept up his brisk walk down the old hiking trail. A look of grim determination could be seen on his English looking face. The man was in a hurry, that much was clear from the way he walked and the urgency on his bearded face. The trench coat he had on did little to protect him from the biting, cool air but one would not know that to look at him. His mind was so focused on the job at hand that he probably was not even aware of the fact that he was shivering at the same time his bare hands were becoming numb, matching how his cheeks felt. He was only concerned with reaching his destination at that moment. He brought his watch close to his face and pressed in a tiny button on the side to activate it’s light. He cursed under his breath. He knew that he would not be able to make it on time but he had no clue that he was this late. He should have met his contact nearly fifteen minutes ago, he just hoped that his contact hadn’t given up on him and decided to leave. A fine example of MI6’s abilities to show to their sister service in the United States, he thought to himself grimly. The man picked up his pace, if his memory served him right, then the meeting spot should be just up ahead, no more than seventy feet or so in the picnic and sitting area. The problem was that it was too hard to see straight ahead; the path twisted and turned every couple feet, surrounded by the thick shapes of trees, tightly pact together in extremely narrow rows making it impossible to see between them.
The man suddenly came to an abrupt halt, stopping dead in his tracks. Did he just hear someone else behind him? The man’s hand reached into his coat and came to a rest on the butt of his pistol and he turned around. Nothing. There was nothing there. But he was so sure that he had heard leaves and twigs being crunched as if someone had been stepping on them. He looked around and focused his attention on the forest on either side of him, scanning the scenery intently but he soon gave up. It was too dark to tell if anyone was there. He quickly decided that he’d better just hurry and get the job done, he was just being paranoid. Paranoia, that’s it, just his overly active imagination getting the better of him. The park was a bit of a spooky place to be at night while it’s empty, he admitted to himself. He also contributed his feelings of trepidation to the extreme delicacy of this assignment, of knowing what information he would soon have in his possession.
The man sighed, moving onwards, oblivious to the fact that he was now being watched by some unseen figure that moved stealthily and swiftly alongside him under the cover of trees and shrubberies, like a grotesque creature from a fairy tale. The ominous figure reached down to its ankle and unsheathed a Browning-hunting knife with a serrated double-edged blade. Like a predators carefully stalking its prey using precise accuracy, the man decided that now was the time to move in and perform the kill.
All the Englishman saw was a sudden glimpse of a dark form appearing from the bushes off to the side. Then, the last thing that he felt was something sharp sliding into his side and a gloved hand covering his mouth, suppressing any screams or calls for help he may have let out at that moment. The Englishman’s eyes widened with surprise rather than pain, he experienced an odd sensation but it was not that of physical pain. It took a whole minute before he finally blacked out, never to awake again.
The attacker withdrew his blade and gently set the body down. He immediately scanned the area to make sure that no one had seen him then he bent down to the corpse and used the dead man’s shirt to wipe clean his blade. He searched the body’s pockets for the microfilm. When the killer became satisfied that his victim had not yet retrieved the microfilm he dragged him off to the side, leaving behind a smear of blood across the pathway. It did not really matter too much if the body was completely concealed since what happened here tonight would be discovered by sunrise anyway.
He proceeded on down the trail.
A bit more up the path there was a small clearing with rows of wooden benches and picnic tables. The tall, husky American was seated at one of these stiff, uncomfortable benches, looking at his watch about every five minutes or so. He did not usually get nervous about an assignment but he had already been waiting here for twenty minutes now, and in his profession that usually, nearly always, meant trouble. Where was he, he asked himself, he’s already nearly a half hour late. He decided that he would just have to leave soon if he did not show up. He’d give the Brit another fifteen minutes and that would be it.
The American heard some footsteps coming down the path, getting louder and louder with each passing second. That must be him now, he just made it. The American sighed with a great sense of relief, feeling as if he had just been relieved of a great burden, which, in many ways he had. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small canister containing and palmed it, ready to make the exchange as arranged by their superiors.
“Glad you finally made it,” the American told the oncoming form with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I was beginning to worry that something had happened to you.”
The new arrival did not take the bother to come up with a reply to the man’s commentary. It would all be over soon enough, anyways.
The American rose to his full height, a little alarmed now that something was not how it should be. “Is something wrong? Someone following you?” he asked, fearing that that may be the excuse for his English counterpart’s tardiness.
The figure began to move faster towards the American and a quick glimpse of shinning metal sliced across the air with expert precision and accuracy. The American felt the blade neatly move across his throat in one quick stroke. His hands instinctively covered the gaping wound but with no avail. He toppled over onto the bench, starting to choke and gag. The attacker moved his foot back and delivered a powerful kick to the American’s face, immediately putting a permanent end to his struggle for life.
The killer performed a quick inspection of the body and soon came up with his objective. The canister was surprisingly heavy for being of such a small size. It was made of metal with a jet-black coloration to it and looked to be about one inch by a half. He shoved it in his coat pocket and zipped the pocket shut.
Before leaving he took one final glance at the fresh corpse to make sure that there were no signs of life remaining within it. Killing was not something that came unfamiliar to this man. He had killed many times in the past and would no doubt so many more times in the future. It was the one particular skill that he excelled at, even enjoyed doing at times. It was this attribute that made him so valuable an asset to his superiors and employers and so deadly a threat to enemies.
The killer got up and started off back down the stone path.
The park became silent once more.
The sleek, grayish shape of the Aston Martin D.B.III pulled to a quite stop in it’s usual parking place, next to that old, tall, and gray building overlooking Regent’s Park, commonly known to the public as Transworld Consortium (replacing the old cover of Universal Export) but to James Bond, and others like him, it was the headquarters for the British Secret Intelligence Service.
Bond stepped out of the car, breathing in the damp, crisp morning air that London always had to offer at this time of year just before the season of winter. He stopped just for a minute to admire his car. He had first been given the opportunity to handle the old D.B.III back during the Goldfinger case and he immediately fell in love with the car, even having to admit that it handled better than his Bentley, it certainly was able to reach higher speeds than the Bentley and was easier to maneuver. He walked through the main entrance, warmly greeting the receptionist, then headed to his office on the eight floor, where the secret service is housed.
Bond shared his office with two others in his department, 008 and 0011, but it was uncommon for all three of them to be present at the office at the same time. Bond unlocked his office door and went inside. He first opened the shades, allowing the bright sunlight to illuminate the small room, then he prepared himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Bond sighed heavily when he saw the thick pile of papers waiting for him on his desk, left behind by his personal assistant, Marcia Walther, Mary Goodnight’s replacement and a skillful young woman who always was able to enlighten his mood when he was forced to spend endless hours of the night sitting at his desk, on the previous night. He skimmed through it, saving what he needed and the rest soon found it’s way into the wastepaper basket in the corner of the room.
Bond, pen in hand, began the long and tedious task filling out the requested reports when the red telephone on his desk went off, making his heart nearly skip a beat with enthusiasm. He hoped that it meant there would be an assignment for him in the works. He would soon die of boredom if he had to spend one more day taking care of the dreaded paperwork that always ended up on his desk. He picked up the phone, “Yes, Bond here,” he answered into the mouthpiece.
“James,” Bond immediately identified the voice as belonging to M’s personal secretary, Miss Moneypenny, “I’m glad that you’ve finally decided to come in, he’s been asking about you all morning long,” she told him. “I don’t’ want to get your hopes up but it sounds like he just might have something for you this time.”
“Oh,” Bond inquired. “What’s happened this time that’s so big?” Just a month ago he had been called by M and his “big assignment” turned out to be nothing more than another load reports to complete. Just how the hell there seemed to be an endless supply of reports and paperwork around here, he had never been quite able to figure out.
“He didn’t say a word to me but he was talking with Bill all morning then asked about you. He sounded pretty urgent, he was in an awful hurry. About it all.”
“All right, when does he want to see me?”
There came a brief pause, Bond could imagine her checking the time, then she finally replied. “In about ten minutes would probably be best.”
"I’ll be over then.” Bond told her and hung the phone back up on the cradle.
He could not help but wonder as to what this was all about, oh well, he’d find out soon enough, he supposed. He still remained hopeful that there would be something for him once he spoke with M. It had been too long since he last seen any “real” action in the field, nearly three months now. That was the last time that anything that could be considered as “major” confronted his service, the Colonel Sun case. Bond still had vivid memories of the insane Chinese Colonel and was glad that that was all over with now. The torture he suffered at Sun’s hands was definitely not something he wished to experience again anytime in the near future.
Bond finished the last of his coffee before going over to M’s office.
Miss Moneypenny’s fingers were furiously striking the keys of her typewriter when she caught a glimpse of Bond entering the room through the corner of her eye. She looked up from her work at him, “You’d better just go right on in,” she told him with her all business tone.
Bond nodded and walked through the door, shutting it behind him. The red light above M’s office door, the one that everyone knew meant DO NOT ENTER, lit up and Moneypenny went back to her work.
M was seated behind his desk filling his pipe with tobacco when Bond came in, “Good morning, Sir.” Bond greeted plainly.
“Good morning, 007 have a seat, would you?” M told him. Bond could not help as to notice that his chief seemed in even a more somber mood than usual.
Bond set himself down in the comfortable, cushioned armchair facing the Old Man. “Is everything all right, Sir, I got Moneypenny’s message.”
M nodded, “No, everything is not all right, 007.” M replied coldly, lighting his pipe and pressing it between his lips. “I’ll just get directly to the point with this one, no sense in wasting more time than is necessary. This morning, just after five o’clock, a man took his daily jog through the park and discovered a pair of dead bodies, an Englishman and an American, they had been stabbed to death. He contacted the police and the police soon got in touch with the Special Branch. An hour later, Inspector Dows of the Special Branch came over here to personally see me. The Englishman had been Andrew Peters.”
Bond sat forward in his chair, clearly surprised to have just heard that from his superior. “Peters, he’s one of ours isn’t he, Sir? Good chap, I worked with him on a few cases.” M’s Buddha nod confirmed his question. “What about the other fellow, the American?”
“The American was Alex Grant,” M replied, “of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Why were the two of them meeting in a park in the middle of the night?” Bond asked with curiosity.
M gave him a look meaning that he was just about to get to that. He took a puff at his pipe and explained the situation, “Our services had arranged to meet so that they would be able to turn over to us a delicate microfilm containing the names, locations, and cover story of every CIA operative currently stationed in Europe, a complete listing of every American agent currently in Europe operating against the Soviets.”
M paused to allow this to sink in for Bond. He did not have to explain to Bond what the repercussions would be if that list were to get out into the open. All of those men and women’s lives would be forfeit and their months, or in the cases of some, years of work would all have been in vain. “I’d hate to see the Russians getting their hands on that information, or even someone like SPECTRE, in that case.” Bond stated solemnly.
M bobbed his head up and down in another nod and continued. “We choose to make the pick up in the middle of the night at a time and place when there would be no people out and about.”
“Obviously, though, someone was ‘out and about’.” Bond said plainly. “Who do you it could be, SMERSH?” Bond wondered aloud, referring to the Soviet murder apparatus. SMERSH, an abbreviation for ^ , or Death To Spies, had been a pain in the secret service’s side for some time now. Not just the British, but intelligence services all around, mainly those of the western powers. Bond first encountered the organization shortly after joining the Double-O section. How he could forget his great baccarat duel with Le Chiffre at Royale. Shortly after he came across another of their operations, involving the smuggling of old pirate gold in the Untied States. It was a few years later that the organization decided Bond was too great a threat to allow to live and hatched a devious plot to eliminate him. That had not been the last time that Bond was pitted against the Russian murder organization.
“That’s entirely possibly and we haven’t set that aside yet. In fact, as of yet, they’re our main suspect and focus of this investigation.” answered M. “This is just the thing that those chaps at SMERSH would want to get their hands on, a way to severely cripple the west’s intelligence community and take out some agents on their little ‘hit list’.” Once more, he paused slightly to take another puff at his pipe. He cleared his throat with a hefty “ahem” and went on. “That meeting last night was meant to be top secret, only five people from both ours’ and the American’s service knew that it was set to even take place, including Grant, Peters, and myself. If anyone could have gotten that information, it’d be the Russians, probably their KGB people.”
“Or any assassin or terrorist who wants to make a profit from the microfilm by selling it to the highest bidder.” Bond suggested. “The CIA, like us, have many enemies who would be more than pleased to acquire the names and exact locations of American agents.”
M shook his head at that, “That is very unlikely. The information on the microfilm is encoded and it takes the proper cipher machine to read and decode it. Only three of these machines are known to exist, not at all unlike that SPEKTOR device.”
“So then who possesses the needed equipment other than the US and ourselves?” inquired Bond.
M looked hard into Bond’s eyes, “The Russians, specifically the cipher department at SMERSH headquarters.”
“I see,” Bond replied, pulling out his gunmetal case and removed a cigarette from it after receiving M’s permitting nod of the head. Bond would not have smoked in M’s office without being invited to do so or given permission first. He used his Dunhill liter to light it and replaced the case. There was no doubt in his mind that his old enemy was involved in this mess. “That could actually buy us some time, they won’t just ship the microfilm out to the Kremlin, they’ll have a man personally deliver it to them and doing so in way not to catch our attention. They’re going to no doubt exercise extreme caution on this one. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the person who did this is still here in London, keeping a low profile and gradually making his way into the Kremlin with the prize. Is anything being done at the moment to protect these agents whose names are on the list?”
“Most of them are in the middle of something, they can’t just recall them but eight have been sent back to the States.”
Bond nodded, taking a drag at his cigarette. “Then do we have any idea whatsoever as to who the actually culprit is who performed the killings and theft of the film?”
M pulled out a black and white photograph from a file folder and handed it over to Bond. “His name is Yuri Korolov, a known assassin for SMERSH. We just learned that he came into England about a week ago is believed to be under the cover of an English businessman. We have his full dossier, you can read through that later.”
Bond studied the picture intently; it was a close up of the man’s face. He had short, neatly trimmed hair carelessly combed off to the side. There was a light mustache just above the thin, pale lips. His eyes were darkly colored and portrayed no sign of emotion or feeling. To the untrained eye he would appear to be any other casual salesman but to Bond and others in his profession, he had the look of a trained and very professional killer who carried out his work without the slightest hint of remorse. He was probably one of those people who did not look at his intended victims as living, breathing human beings but rather just another obstacle in the way of getting his job done.
Bond handed the photograph back to M, “Where’s he staying?”
“We were able to track him down to a motel nearby, he maybe using the identity of Charles Winston,” he handed Bond some papers, saying, “You’ll need these, 007.”
Bond took the papers. He finished off his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray and stood up to leave. “Oh, one more thing, 007.”
Bond turned to look at M with, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I would strongly suggest that you be damned cautious with this one,” M told Bond sternly “We’re entering a new age of peace with the Russians, for the first time since they captured that American pilot, Francis Powers, after shooting down the spy plane, we’re actually at talks of disarmament again. A fragile peace is slowly building between Russia and the Western world, one that no one can afford to loose.”
Bond nodded, “I’ll keep that in mind, Sir,” he replied and took his departure.
Within ten minutes, after being given the exact address, James Bond was sitting behind the steering wheel of the faithful D.B.III, making his way to lower London, tearing down a relatively empty stretch of road.. He was glad to see that traffic was still pretty light; he would not be so fortunate on the return trip.
Bond had known the MI6 agent, Andrew Peters, and could not help as to feel regret over his death. Bond had met Peters shortly after joining Her Majesty’s Secret Service, though they never become what could be called close friends, they would still go out for the occasionally drink at times to get away from life at the office. Even if it were someone else other than Peters who had been killed, Bond would probably still have taken it personally, as anyone else would have when someone in their department is murdered. It leaves you with a feeling of complete helplessness. And if Bond failed to retrieve that microfilm, it meant that many others just like Peters, and himself, would be in serious trouble. He doubted if SMERSH, if indeed it was SMERSH responsible, would eliminate all of the CIA agents on the list, no, there would probably be a few who they would rather take in for interrogation. But Bond took his mind off of that outcome because he would not allow that microfilm to leave the country.
Bond made a sharp turn and looked down at the directions. He already had a fair idea of where the Sailor’s Inn was and knew that he was almost there now.
Finally, after twenty minutes more of driving, Bond spotted the rather cheap, two story motel and bar. It was off the side of an empty road, just outside of London. The parking lot was not terribly packed with cars but there were enough to assume that the Inn made enough business to justify not closing down. Their customers mostly consisted of people who had been driving all day straight and needed a cheap place to spend the night. It was also a good way for an assassin to stay in town and keep a low profile, Bond reminded himself.
Bond parked the Aston Martin and got out. He walked across the parking lot and through the front entrance into the main lobby. The lobby was relatively small. It contained what served as a sitting room with two couches and an armchair around a coffee table with a fish aquarium on a wood floor. A man was seated in the chair smoking a cigar and reading through the morning’s London Post. Behind the sitting room setup stood the front desk with two clerks, a man and woman in uniformed jackets and black pants. Bond went over to the woman.
“How can I help, are you interested in a room?” she asked, hoping to make another profit.
“Actually, I’ve come here to meet a friend of mine,” Bond told her.
She nodded and said, “All right, what’s your friend’s name?”
“Charles Winston, he may have arrived last week,”
The clerk consulted the record book, “We’ve had no Charles Winston check over the past week but we do have a Donald Winston who just came in last night.”
The man came into England a week ago but must have slowly made his way into London, Bond thought. Donald Winston, that must be the man. “Ah, yes, that would be his brother. Would you be able to tell me what room he’s at?”
“He’s staying at room eleven at the end of that hallway,” she said while pointing. “I believe he’s at the bar now if you want to look for him there.”
“Thank, you, very much.” Bond told her and headed down the hallway.
As Bond passed the entrance to the bar, he slowed down a little to peer inside. He scanned the bar and easily found his man in the crowd of ten people. Sitting at the far end at a round table was the man Bond seen in the photograph earlier in M’s office. Donald Winston indeed.
Bond turned the corner and walked down the next hallway with closed doors leading into rooms on either side.
He came to a stop outside of the door numbered eleven and made sure that nobody was around to see him. He bent down to get eyelevel with the door and removed his pocketknife. Bond normally did not carry pocketknives but Major Boothroyd at Q Branch insisted that this little device would come in handy someday, and he was right, Bond realized. He flipped it open and slid out one of its extensions, a lock pick. He slid it into the keyhole and manipulated it until he heard a sudden click coming from inside. He pocketed the knife and stood up. Pushing the door open, he helped himself inside.
Bond closed the door after himself, and took in the room. It had wood paneling on the walls with a dark brown carpet blanketing the floor. There was a single bed in the center of the room; it’s head against the wall, facing the dresser. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a clock and radio and telephone. The last piece of furniture was the sitting table with two matching chairs. Off to the side was the bathroom.
Resting on the table was a single piece of luggage, a black suitcase. Bond examined the case and it’s lock. It took him but a few seconds to get past the lock and flip the lid open. Inside were neatly folded shirts and other articles of clothing that one expects to find in a man’s traveling luggage. Bond moved some of the clothes aside until he came to a folder at the bottom of the case. He took it out and went through its contents. Bond soon came to the conclusion that it was a complete listing of Korolov's traveling plans. Bond could not make out all of the details, the handwriting was in Russian, but he recognized some of the locations. It seemed that on the previous Tuesday, Korolov arrived in Middlesbrough, then moved on to Manchester until he made his way into London. The last address listed was one in Bristol. That must be where he’d headed off to next, Bond assumed, probably to meet a contact and make arrangements to get the microfilm into Russia. Bond scrolled through the rest of the papers, coming to a chart of various identities matched to different locations.
Bond tore off a piece of paper from a blank sheet and scribbled down the Bristol address and the identity that was connected to Bristol. Bond shoved the note into his trouser pocket and replaced the folder in the suitcase as he found it, first making sure that all of the papers were in order and appeared to be untouched. He shut case, seeing to it that it was once more locked properly.
That’s when Bond heard it, a loud noise coming from the door. Bond identified it as being someone struggling with the key. Bond swiftly came up with his trusted Walther PPK and crouched down between the bed and the wall. Not the best place of concealment but it would be sufficient enough to catch Korolov offguard. Bond screwed the silencer to the barrel of his pistol and held his breathe, not making the slightest of noises, and waited.
Korolov opened the door and walked inside his room, closing the door behind him. He coughed loudly into his hand and walked forward, instantly falling to the floor as a result of the sharp blow to the back. He looked up and saw Bond rising to his full height, gun in hand.
“Where is it?” Bond asked with menace.
“What are you talking about and why are you here!” the man exclaimed.
He was able to fake an acceptable English accent Bond thought. “The microfilm, tell me now or things will get awfully unpleasant for you, I can guarantee that”
“All right, it’s in my case.”
Bond eyed him suspiciously, “Stand up.” He ordered, gesturing with the Walther.
Korolov did so and Bond moved over to him to frisk him and disarm him of a hidden Derringer. He tossed the gun across the room onto the bed, far out of reach and searched the man’s pockets. There was no sign of the microfilm on him. “Open up the case and step away from it.” Bond instructed.
Korolov nodded and did as he was told. Bond, keeping his weapon trained on his target, emptied out the case, making quite a mess of Korolov’s things but he didn’t object. “It’s in a hidden compartment,” he explained to Bond.
Bond did not believe him; he was being much too cooperative to be believable. “I’ll show you,” Korolov continued.
“No, stay right where you, describe how to get to the compartment.” Bond cut him off.
As Bond spoke, Korolov bent down to scoop up his clothes, making a show of neatly folding them. Finally he said, “The rear left corner, behind the lining.”
Bond’s hand felt the given area; he didn’t see any opening in the interior lining.
Korolov expertly slid his hand inside one his shirts and grasped the hilt of his hunting knife, the same one used to murder Peters and Grant, with such swiftness and nonchalance that Bond failed to see what he had done. Knife in hand, he removed it from the shirt and lunged into Bond.
Bond felt the knife skim across his gun and the next thing he knew, he was laying on the floor with Korolov on top of him, trying desperately to slid the knife home into Bond’s throat. Bond was forced to release his grip on the PPK and used both hands to grasp the wrist of the hand with the blade, struggling to movie it away from him. Bond soon realized, however, that Korolov was much stronger than one would think by just looking at him. Bond brought his knee up hard; it went directly into his attacker’s groin. A gasp of pain escaped his lips and Bond took advantage of the momentarily distraction, using his body weight to roll Korolov over and off of him. Korolov’s arm instantly lashed out to the side, the knife tore through the carpet where Bond’s head would have been had he not acted fast enough.
Bond jumped to his feet, carefully avoiding a second slash from Korolov. Bond reached out for the only weapon available, the suitcase, and smashed it down hard onto Korolov. He tried to block the case by extending his hand over his face but his knife blade got caught in it. He cried out in anger, and dived for Bond’s legs, pressing them together and pulling them out from under him, both men once more toppled over to the floor. Bond smashed his elbow directly into Korolov’s face and managed to break free of his strong hold.
His eyes quickly scanned the floor for the discarded Walther but it was nowhere in sight. Bond swore under his breath when he glanced up, Korolov was standing before him, the PPK in his hand. “Nice try, but I still win,” he told Bond mockingly, using the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his nose.
“Where are you headed with that microfilm?” Bond asked him flatly.
“That is not even for a dead man such as yourself to know,” replied Korolov. “How do you want it, the back of head or you would prefer to see it coming?”
It was how Korolov spoke those last words that made Bond realize that this was indeed one of those sick-minded people who not only killed, as Bond himself often had to do, but also received some sort of bizarre pleasure from doing so as well. Bond opened his mouth to reply but stopped when he felt something heavy fall from his pocket, the Q Branch knife. He kept his eyes focused on Korolov as his hand slowly felt across the carpet for the instrument. His hand came to it and pulled out the short but nonetheless sharp blade. Bond brought his hand up to his head, as if to scratch an annoying itch, but instead his hand moved in an arc formation and the knife was sent through air and into Korolov’s thigh. He cried out as Bond moved to the side, and he fired a shot.
Bond felt the burning bullet skim across the upper portion of his shoulder, where the shoulder meets the neck, a spatter of blood instantly staining the wall and floor and he let himself fall over onto to his face, loosing consciousness, not moving an inch.
Korolov pulled the knife from his leg, and looked at the body sprawled out in the
floor. He had been shot right through the neck. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the telephone, he took a minute to recall the number in his mind then dialed it. The phone rang and someone picked up. “Yes?”
“This is Charles,” Korolov replied, “We’re having some small troubles with the delivery, there might be a small delay in getting it to you.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Oh, an agent from one of our competing UK companies tried to get a hold of the film but I took care of everything.”
“Just do whatever it takes to bring it to me safely.”
“Of course, Major.” Korolov replied and hung the phone back up. He glanced around the room a last time and left.
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