From Russia, with Love (I tend to forget the comma when writing about the novel - not this time) is Fleming’s masterpiece. Over the years I’ve read all his books countless times; this is the one that sticks out for its sheer boldness - a third of it without Bond - its rich atmosphere, its fantastic ideas, colourful scenery, vivid characters and its down-to-earth but politically red-hot topicality for Britain in 1957.
After the only so-so Diamonds Are Forever Fleming struggled with writing his fifth Bond novel, even toyed with letting his creation die and ending his series. “My muse is in a very bad way … I am getting fed up with Bond and it has been very difficult to make him go through his tawdry tricks.” Fleming wrote to his friend Raymond Chandler. Reading From Russia, with Love, however, one detects no slack and no lack of ideas. This is Fleming at the very top of his game.
And Fleming’s game is one of the toughest, spinning his yarn always taking the narratively most pleasing option, usually preferring the interesting or bizarre turn to a realistic one and presenting the resulting fantastical ludicrousness as if it was perfectly reasonable. Fleming is so adept at his sleight of hand tricks we are swept along with the story, even nodding with agreement when Fleming directly addresses the outrageous nature of the scheme - and not once do we stop to consider why it should all happen in this way and neither M nor Bond nor Darko Kerim see the obvious answer to the riddle.
Fleming’s cheekiness starts right when he opens the first ten chapters without Bond but instead offers us an assortment of vile, repugnant and horrible Russian personnel from their terror and murder apparat MGB and Smersh. These are presented so repulsively authentic their presence is felt throughout the rest of the book - but cleverly Fleming smuggles ‘ordinary’ people like Red Grant’s masseuse or Tatiana into his tale so we see Grant and Klebb through their eyes, horrified and fascinated at the same time as the prelude to Smersh’s scheme unfolds.
Fleming’s trick is not to deny the obvious trap - M, Kerim and Bond are all sceptical of a Russian defector - but to serve it as the master plan of Smersh’s strategic chess genius Kronsteen. Who predicts the Service will ultimately fall for the ruse simply out of greed for the Spektor and personal vanity.
And right there, Kronsteen predicted it and M and Bond do exactly as expected. Not because they are stupid - although they must be if they actually acted this way in our world - but because they want to find out what the Russians are really after. We of course know already, but we’re glad they don’t do the sensible thing and forget about the offer. We want to find out how Bond will escape the Russian’s trap.
Time and again the book’s protagonists Bond and Kerim ask themselves what could be the reason for the attempts on Kerim’s life - like that couldn’t be clearer. But this ignorance also serves another purpose. It was declared by Kronsteen that the Service’s head of Istanbul station has to be eliminated. Which by all means ordinarily would certainly end any interest in Tatiana’s offer when her only contact with the Service is killed right after the fact.
The way it’s presented, however, it makes for some gripping long-distance duel with Krilencu - and we never pause to ask why Kerim had to be eliminated by the faceless mob in the first place. It’s patently counterproductive to the plan, would even risk Bond just leaving without making contact. If at all, the sensible thing would have been to kill Kerim only after the plot worked out as intended. But this way it’s far more exciting.
Darko Kerim can be called the heart and soul of this book, a larger-than-life figure so magnetic he threatens to take over the tale with his adventurous esprit. His life story is so fascinating we swallow it whole, warts and all (and his ‘consummation’ of women certainly is a big wart). Once again Fleming draws a character whose exploits are so fabulous and fascinating we don’t get to wonder why he’d invest serious time and funds into excavating a secret tunnel from the Hall of Pillars to the Golden Horn. The chance this tunnel - if it existed at all - would run just under the Russian embassy had to be absurdly slim. We’re so fascinated by the clever use of the submarine periscope it never occurs to us it would be patently useless while installing a microphone would have been so much more useful operationally. But then Bond wouldn’t get the first glimpse of Tatiana.
The book is full of such cleverly disguised adventure lore, nearly every chapter with Kerim offers an account of a near-miss bomb attempt, a murderous shootout or some other Cold War skirmish.
The funny thing is, in all this suspense and tit for tat bloodshed Bond comes across as strikingly ‘normal’, almost naïve. This is 007, the oldest of the three 00s and a seasoned operator in the sabotage and destruction line of secret intelligence. Yet here he’s also our eyes and ears witnessing the grimy underbelly of the shadow war and he comes across as almost ordinary civil servant who got lost on the Balkans and its customs.
The different facets of Bond’s life at home and at headquarters, his musings during his flight - on a Friday 13th! - and his battle with bedbugs and cold water are so amusing and relatable we forget how convenient it is Bond should choose a hotel where Smersh can pop up a secret voyeur cabin and a silent film camera at 24 hrs notice, or how impossible it is Tatiana should insist on the Orient Express as their escape route and SIS would gladly go along.
This is a refreshingly different take on Bond’s abilities, who has no illusions about overpowering Grant without weapons. We’ve come to see Bond as fighting machine, easily overpowering numerous adversaries. Not this time, not Red Grant. Fleming always depicted Bond as able fighter, yet nowhere near a professional. In From Russia, with Love he’s clearly outclassed by Grant’s physique. What makes him win in the end is the simple fact he never gives up.
Fleming spent many years trying to get his creation on the big screen. He became involved with Kevin McClory - involvement he’d soon regret - and together they tried to interest Hitchcock in the napkin idea of what would subsequently become Thunderball. The exact amount of Hitchcock’s interest, or why it fell flat, is not quite clear - but it strikes me From Russia, with Love would have been the far better choice to get his attention. This is almost to a t the stuff Hitchcock preferred, a hero on the run without having a clue what’s happening. The bizarre element, the peeping Tom secret film cabinet, Hitchcock would have loved it all.
Rereading From Russia, with Love was great fun - after I first read it almost 50 years ago. I envy fans new to the franchise who discover this gem today, possibly even before the film. It’s a treat.
