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continued. "I knew a Bond, way back at Annapolis. You got any American
relatives?"
"I think not, sir. Many friends, but no relatives - not as far as I
know, anyway." Rear-Admiral Walmsley moved a foot, kicking Bond's ankle
sharply. But Gudeon seemed oblivious to the tongue-in-cheek answer.
"And," Walmsley quickly pushed Bond along the line, "our most senior
officer here. Admiral Sergei Pauker, Commander-in -Chief of the Soviet
Navy."
"An honour, sir." Bond looked the man straight in the eyes.
Pauker had the rosy cheeks of a Mr. Pickwick, but there the likeness
ended. The eyes were grey and cold, showing no emotion.
Dead eyes, overhung by frosty eyebrows. He had a small mouth, but it
did form itself into a surprisingly friendly smile. The main feature of
the face, ruddy cheeks apart, was a huge aquiline nose.
"Bond," he pronounced it "Bound". "I think somewhere I have heard the
name before. Have you, perhaps, served in your embassy in Moscow?"
He spoke excellent English.
"Not exactly in the embassy, sir." Bond gave an almost imperceptible
smile.
"But you are known there, I think. In Moscow, I mean."
"It wouldn't surprise me, sir."
"Good. Good." The humour disappeared from his face and the eyes glazed
over.
There was no offer of a drink, and Rear-Admiral Walmsley ushered Bond
out of the room, like a farmer getting an errant sheep into a van.
"The security people are in Briefing One," he whispered.
Briefing One was Qe primary Air-Group Briefing-Room on the port side,
amidships and two decks below the officers' quarters. It had been
cleared for an hour, so that the security teams could get together, and
Bond entered it quickly, going straight into his prepared routine. "My
name's Bond, James Bond. Captain, Royal Navy," he began, then stopped
abruptly. The one woman among the ten large men, was enough to stop
anyone or anything.
She also spoke before anyone else. "Captain Bond. I am First Naval
Attache to Admiral Pauker. My name is Nikola Ratnikov.
My friends call me Nikki. I hope you are to be my friend.
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You could feel the unsettling tension spark through the room, and it was
obvious that Nikola Ratnikov had been showing the cold-shoulder to the
rest of her colleagues, which must have been irritating to say the
least. Comrade Attache' Ratnikov would have given a tweak to the loins
of even a devout monk, and it would not matter whether the monk was
Roman Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, or Russian Orthodox. She had that
indefinable quality about her manner, features and body which made all
heterosexual men turn to look twice, and, possibly a third time, if they
had the energy left.
Nikki Ratnikov wore a well-tailored Soviet Naval Woman Officer's
uniform, which is not flattering to all. There again, Nikki could have
made sackcloth and ashes look like Dior. When she moved towards him,
hand extended, even Bond felt his knees tremble slightly. She had
short, ash-blonde hair, cut in what used to be called a pageboy style,
but, from where he stood, it looked like a tempting golden helmet,
framing a face of classic beauty.
It was not the kind of face that Bond usually went for. He preferred
slightly blemished good looks, but Nikki's eyes held his for almost a
minute, and it was longer before he let go of her hand.
"Hallo, Captain Bond, we've met before." It was one of the Special
Branch men, all done up in a Lieutenant's uniform, complete with the
gold trimmings of a Flag Officer. "Brinkley," he added.
"Yes, of course. Yes, I remember you. Ted Brinkley, right?"
"On the button, sir." The Special Branch man looked for all the world
like a Special Branch man in fancy dress, as did his partner, Martin -
"My friends call me "Moggy"' - Camm.
He did the rounds of the other security men. Few had resorted to the
bad disguises of the Branch men, and they looked like a very heavy team.
The Americans introduced themselves as Joe, Stan, Edgar and Bruce. Bruce
was a very tall black officer with an exceptionally bone-crushing
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