by Nick Elliott
That evening, Anderson opened a bottle of wine, which they drank between them before dinner.
‘Did you know,’ enthused Hardy as he poured the wine, ‘that Lebanon is one of the oldest sites of wine production in the world? The Israelite prophet Hosea urged his followers to return to God so that “they will blossom as the vine, and their fragrance will be like the wine of Lebanon”. That was almost three thousand years ago!’ They opened another bottle to drink with their dinner, but Valdis declined. He had been turned – readily. Now he had to live with the consequences of his decision.
Chapter 4
Al-Husn, Syria
February 1963
Krak des Chevaliers was a seventy-mile drive from Byblos. They entered Syria via the Abboudieh–Dabboussieh border, crossing well before noon. They had visas arranged by the Beirut station and Anderson had a few fifty and hundred dollar bills in his pocket in case of any hesitation on the part of the border police.
Hardy had argued that as an experienced field agent it was he who should handle the potentially dangerous switch, but Anderson had insisted he must be the one despite the risks.
‘That’s exactly my point,’ he’d stressed. ‘They’ll see you for who you are – a tough, hardened field agent.’ Hardy was six foot four and weighed two hundred pounds plus. ‘You’re probably on their files, as might I be. But I’m the ageing, desk-bound boffin in their eyes – the least dangerous. And I need to see this go right, Phillip. There’s a great deal riding on it. I’m talking about the future, the long game. He’s my Joe now. And I’ll make sure he’s the best asset we’ve ever had over there.’ The truth was that Anderson had formed a genuine affection for Valdis, viewing him almost as a surrogate son: unprofessional, but true nonetheless.
Anderson was driving a Simca with Valdis alongside him. They kept a close eye on the heavy traffic around them but the nondescript car their Beirut people had acquired was unlikely to attract attention. As an added precaution, Hardy was driving the shiny Jaguar some miles behind and would veer off somewhere enroute to create a diversion, though only if he deemed it necessary. Otherwise he’d tail them all the way. Their fear was that a KGB team from Beirut might have their own agenda, or simply not be aware of what their GRU cousins were up to. It was not unheard-of for one of the Russian intelligence services to trip over the other during an operation.
‘I hope to hell this is going to work, Archie,’ Hardy had said as he saw them off.
‘Relax, will you. You’ll be there as back-up.’ He might have been the desk-bound boffin nowadays but he’d done his time in the field, and in times of war when the stakes and the danger were at their highest.
Hardy knew Anderson pretty well and knew his blasé style, which was something of a hallmark back in London, but he was feeling the tension and wasn’t too comfortable at being relegated to back-up rather than running the show. Anderson was in his late forties. He was short-sighted and not particularly athletic, while Hardy was at least ten years younger, skied, played tennis and swam – often all on the same day. He prided himself on his fitness. And he’d been based in Lebanon for almost three years now, during which time he’d had one or two brushes with local Soviet agents. Both men were armed but Hardy went to a discreet firing range outside the city once a week for target practice with his Browning. He had no idea when Anderson had last fired a gun.
And most important of all was Valdis. He looked calm enough, but how would he cope if this charade turned awkward?
Anderson parked the Simca in the village of al-Husn, which nestled at the foot of the ancient fortress over two thousand feet up from the coast. A local man approached them offering to keep an eye on the car. Anderson handed him fifty dollars with the promise of another fifty, provided all was well on their return.
Declining the enthusiastic offers of the local guides, they climbed up through the main entrance gate set into the castle’s sixteen foot thick walls, across the moat and into a courtyard. Valdis paused, placing his hand on Anderson’s sleeve.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice suddenly wavering. ‘Give me a moment, please.’ He was clearly agitated. He glanced about him uncertainly, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Deep breath,’ Anderson said. ‘It’ll be alright, trust me.’ He took hold of the Latvian’s arms and stared him in the eye. Suddenly he recalled a similar situation when seeing his son off to boarding school on his first day. Only this wasn’t Harrow. And there’d be no half-term or summer holidays to look forward to.
‘I have something important to give you,’ he said. He’d saved this until the last moment because he’d anticipated the fear that Valdis would be feeling and wanted to give him both reassurance and something to concentrate on, something to take his mind off what lay ahead. ‘You must memorise this, do you understand?’ He took a notebook from his pocket and held it up. ‘It’s the number you can call in an emergency. It’s untraceable and it will take you straight through to me at any time, day or night, wherever I am.’ He recited the number and told Valdis to repeat it three times. ‘Got it?’
‘Got it,’ said Valdis, feeling better.
They entered a dark passageway covered in delicate carvings which led through to a large vaulted hall. This eight hundred-year-old castle, built for the Knights of St John at the height of their powers, had housed a garrison of two thousand men. Now it was to be the stage for a poorly rehearsed play. Anderson had handled spy swaps before, but never one like this. He was casting his young protégé into a life of uncertainty and danger. The weight of responsibility hung heavy on the spy master’s shoulders. If he’d got this wrong … It didn’t bear thinking about.
Chapter 5
Damascus–al-Husn, Syria
February 1963
On rising at seven that same morning, Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Rybakov of the GRU’s Spetsnaz 10th Special Purpose Brigade, had smiled, not something he allowed himself very often. But this morning he was feeling good. He lit the first cigarette of the sixty or so he would smoke that day, coughed as he inhaled and stood naked, looking out of his bedroom window. The sun was shining and today he had a small task to perform, not something he would normally be assigned, it was more KGB territory, but this was different. He was in the right place at the right time, having just completed a tour of duty in the Chechnya, Ingushetia and Dagestan borderlands. Now he’d been redeployed to Syria, another godforsaken outpost of the Soviet empire. There were compensations though: a day trip from Damascus to the famous Crusader castle of Krak des Chevaliers didn’t seem too arduous.
The Englishman, Karl Thompson, had arrived the day before on a direct VVS flight from Moscow. They’d delivered him to Rybakov’s unit on the outskirts of the city, where he was locked in a cell normally reserved for Soviet soldiers who’d got themselves into trouble with the Komendantskaya sluzhba, the Soviet military police. Rybakov had visited him and found a man broken by his experiences. When he’d entered Thompson’s cell the Englishman had looked up from his bunk with fear in his eyes as if waiting for a beating from the burly Russian, something he’d come to expect from the living hell he’d been going through. His nerves were in tatters, his state of mind surging from almost hysterical optimism to the depths of depression as the months had gone by. The beatings he’d almost learned to live with, but the psychological damage was another matter. His sanity was on the edge, his grip on reality loosened amid the constantly shifting, raised and dashed hopes of his incarceration.
‘Well, English. So you’re going home, eh?’ Rybakov had bellowed, taunting the man. ‘Let’s hope so, eh? Let’s hope the other guy turns up, eh? Otherwise you may get stuck here – in the desert, with me!’ Roaring with laughter he’d left the cell and walked back down the corridor.
Today, he was taking Thompson and two of his most trusted men with him. The roads were poor so they would leave at nine o’clock sharp, safely allowing four hours for the hundred and thirty mile journey. Once there they would make the swap with the British and head
back north to Damascus, arriving before dark. He was not anticipating trouble but if there was any it would add a touch of excitement to the day. Trouble was something Rybakov was used to, even sought out. The young Latvian seaman he’d been told to pick up in exchange for Thompson was none of his concern. He’d leave it to the GRU interrogation people in Moscow to hammer the truth out of him, although he wouldn’t mind a crack at him first. As for the British who were delivering him, Rybakov had never rated them much and his judgement had been supported by their handling of Philby. It amazed him that they hadn’t just shot the bastard. A traitor was a traitor whoever’s side you were on.
He finished his cigarette, threw the stub out of the window, turned back to the bed where the young Syrian woman lay sleeping, pulled the sheet back and slapped her backside. ‘Wake up, little one!’ he boomed. ‘Time for some fun before I go to work, eh!’ She was a pretty little thing, far more accommodating than those Muslim women in the Caucasus. They’d resisted the attentions of Rybakov and the men of his unit. Some would call it rape. He didn’t care. Soldiers needed entertainment and some relief wherever they were fighting. As for the summary executions and the torture, he didn’t particularly relish carrying out such acts, but they were necessary if order was to be restored among those people who thought they had some God-given right to govern themselves. At the end of the day he didn’t care about them or their religion. He was just glad to be out of the place, even if it was to another shithole. The north Caucasus might be quiet for now but he’d seen enough during his tours in the region to know there would be trouble in the future. And the same went for Syria.
***
The Russians, along with Thompson, arrived a quarter of an hour before the Brits with Valdis, but instead of entering the hall as had been agreed, they positioned themselves in one of the cloistered passageways off to one side and from where they could observe the comings and goings. Rybakov had no trouble spotting the three men when they arrived.
‘Welcome, Mr MI6!’ he called out, his deep bass echoing through the hall. Startled tourists looked round to see where the voice was coming from. ‘Come here! We have your man. And you have mine, I can see.’
Anderson took Valdis by the arm and led him into an adjacent passageway. Hardy had joined them and stood a few yards behind. It took them several moments to adjust to the darkness. Then they saw the Russians. Anderson called out: ‘I have Ozols here. Now show me Thompson.’
Four figures at the far end of the passageway moved forward into a narrow patch of sunlight cast from an arrow slit in the wall. Now Anderson could make them out, one, a thickset bull of a man, holding another by the arm: Thompson. And two others behind, flanking them.
Rybakov called out again: ‘Here he is. Now send me Ozols.’
Anderson could see now that Rybakov was holding a gun to Thompson’s head. ‘They pass each other in the middle, alright?’ he called. ‘That’s the protocol. And put that gun away.’
But as he spoke Thompson suddenly broke free of the Russian’s grasp lurching forward in an awkward run, heading straight for where Anderson and Valdis were standing. Anderson could hear his rasping breath as, panicked, he made a desperate rush away from what he must have perceived to be the threat of Rybakov and his gun, to safety.
‘Stop there!’ Anderson shouted, in that instant fearing the Russians’ response . A shot rang out, echoing round the castle walls and Thompson was thrown forward. Collapsing onto the stone floor, he convulsed once or twice then lay still. After a moment of stunned silence, screams rang out from the tourists in the hall.
‘Go now, run!’ Anderson whispered to Valdis. The Latvian got the message and as he burst forward, started shouting in Russian: ‘Pomogi mne!’ Feinting, Anderson made to grab him by the arm. Improvising the charade, Valdis struggled, broke free and shouting again, ‘Pomogi!’ Help! ran towards the Russians.
Anderson rushed over to where Thompson lay, feeling his neck for a pulse. There was none. He stood up, stepping back to avoid the pool of blood spreading out from the body. ‘You mad bastard!’ he shouted at Rybakov, ‘what the hell did you do that for?’
‘Hey, English,’ called Rybakov. ‘Easy, alright? Easy! He shouldn’t have run like that, the fool. I told him I’d shoot him if he tried anything stupid, so what did he do? Something stupid!’
A few tourists had entered the passageway now to gawp at the unfolding drama. The other two Russians had drawn their guns as Anderson moved away from the dead man and towards them. Hardy had his Browning drawn and was walking beside Anderson.
Rybakov spoke softly now: ‘Let’s not turn this into a big problem, eh? Your man was sick; he was dying. He wouldn’t have lasted long, believe me.’
‘You broke the deal,’ Anderson replied bitterly. ‘This won’t go down well for you in Moscow.’
‘I think you mean in London, my friend. This one belongs to us. You see?’ Rybakov had Valdis by the arm now and was shaking him gently. ‘He wants to come back home, don’t you, Ozols? He’s a law-abiding citizen of the Soviet Union and you abducted him. Now, English,’ the Russian added soothingly, ‘all okay, yes? You go back to your office now. Tell your boss you fucked up again, eh? First you let Philby go, now this one.’ He waved the gun towards where Thompson lay. ‘Maybe time to retire,’ he sneered. ‘You’re getting too old for this kind of work.’
‘Take the little shit.’ Anderson spoke angrily. ‘He’s no bloody use to us.’
***
Reflecting on it with Hardy back at the safe house that evening the two men agreed it had almost gone to plan. Their main objective had been achieved: they’d delivered Valdis to the Soviets with as strong a legend as they could for his protection. In time, when and only when Valdis made contact through the protocols Anderson had taught him, London could expect to harvest the fruits of his labour. But Anderson felt little satisfaction now the job was done. Only anxiety for his young Joe, and for the grilling he would soon have to endure. For his own noble and ideological reasons Valdis would be risking everything: exposure, interrogation, torture and a bullet in the back of his head.
As for Karl Thompson, there were always casualties in war, not least in the Cold War, but his was a particularly tragic case. Rybakov was a thug, a typical product of the GRU’s Spetsnaz special forces. His masters would not approve of his impulsive behaviour in killing the Englishman. By casually shooting the man, he’d breached the terms of the deal brokered at a high level between Moscow and London. In doing so he’d damaged what little trust existed in Anglo–Soviet relations. Not irreparably, perhaps, but it would certainly make future deals of this nature all the more difficult.
‘The KGB would have handled it better,’ said Hardy over his whisky glass.
‘Probably,’ Anderson replied.
‘Either way,’ said Hardy, ‘Thompson was another victim of the Soviet state. We know what we’re up against, don’t we.’
‘Yes,’ Anderson concluded, raising his glass. ‘One of the most brutal, ruthless, unprincipled, oppressive and authoritarian states the world has ever seen, which is why we get up and go to work every day, eh? Here’s to Valdis.’
PART 2
Chapter 6
Suez Canal, Egypt–Riga, Latvia
March 1999
We’d arrived at the southern end of the Suez Canal at 1700. Instructions from port control were to heave up anchor and have engines on standby for 0400 the following day, ready for the pilot to board. The next morning, bad weather meant a delay and we were told the pilot would now board at a different marker further north. We entered the canal itself at 0615, taking our position in the northbound convoy with four ships ahead of us.
‘Angus, have your deck crew standing by on VHF to pick up the pilot, endaxi?’
‘Standing by,’ I called back to the chief mate.
The current was setting north-east at a rate of three knots and the Haboub wind was howling in from the north west at Beaufort six. The wind brought dust and sand with it, creating a thi
ck haze that darkened the sky. The canal is a hundred miles long, give or take a mile or two. Because there are no locks to interrupt traffic, transit time from end to end averages fourteen or fifteen hours. Our old tub pushed on as best she could, although this time it took longer thanks to the adverse winds.
The Electra M had a take-it-or-leave-it look about her. She was built twenty-one years ago in Korea, not so old in ship years, but she’d been worked hard throughout her life and now the main engine was running on reduced revs due to an assortment of mechanical problems.
Once through the canal we had four days in Port Said taking on bunkers, stores and spares, making a few crew changes and waiting for the Greek repair squad who’d come down from Piraeus to finish repairs on the main engine.
My department had its fair share of problems too. Despite our best efforts Rattus Rattus continued to make his presence felt throughout the ship and the additional traps we needed to keep the rodents at bay hadn’t arrived despite having been ordered weeks before; neither were they available from the Port Said chandler.
‘Let’s get a cat,’ I’d suggested to the captain on many occasions. This had been the time-honoured solution for centuries.
‘One of these days, Angus,’ he’d reply.
Lifeboat stores overdue for replenishment was another problem. We hadn’t received permission to purchase them from head office. Then two of my deck crew feared they’d picked up a dose of the clap while sampling the delights of Port Said’s brothels. I sent them to the second mate for treatment in his capacity as the ship’s medic.
On the positive side, replacement parts for the fresh water pumps had arrived, which meant we could all get proper showers. And the locals I dealt with were generally friendly and helpful – once I’d handed out the baksheesh: cartons of Marlboro and the odd bottle of Scotch from our bonded store. This was a task usually assigned to the skipper or the first mate, but I’d got landed with it. Pilots, agents, bumboat coxswains, mooring gangs: they all expected such gratuities, and once given would often ask for more. On this occasion it was the agent: ‘For my brother, he is sick.’