The Code

by Nick Elliott

  ‘What’s wrong, Valdis? Sit down. Tell me.’

  He sat on the edge of his bed. ‘I knew it. I told you. They know who I am and now they want me to know that they know.’

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘First they threaten me. Then they hit me here.’ He twisted painfully to show me where they’d punched him in the kidney on his right side. It was red and would darken into a bruise. ‘They pushed me against the wall when I was in the shower. All three of them were there – naked. “Better watch it old man,” they said. “We know all about you.”’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily make them GRU does it?’ I asked, still not wanting to believe that the highly secret and notoriously brutal Russian military intelligence service was breathing heavily down our necks. ‘Maybe they’re just VIP gangsters having some fun at your expense. They’re bullies, and bullies are cowards, so they pick on an old guy like you. Do you want me to lean on them?’ I added, without feeling any confidence in what the outcome of that might be.

  ‘No. Don’t do that. I am just telling you. Believe me, they’re not just bullies. I’ve told you this before. They are GRU bullies, or at least hired by the GRU. And I’m sure they are being well paid. I’ve heard of similar cases where prisoners are watched by GRU on the inside, but usually it’s the guards or the warden who are hired to do the watching and report back.

  ‘I said to them, who are you? They say: “Never mind, but remember you are safer in here than outside. In here you can do no harm. Out there, maybe you want to sing like a little bird. That would not be good for you. Not good at all.” They wanted me to know that they have control of me in here and that they know my case. And if you want to believe they are just gangsters then you would never make a good spy, because a good spy is always suspicious. Always!’

  ‘Then perhaps you should suspect me. I might be a plant. Anyway, I don’t want to be a spy. I don’t have the same reasons, the same cause, as you had.’

  Eventually he calmed down – for a while. Then his impatience resurfaced: ‘How long? How long before the Admiral comes? We need him, don’t you understand?’

  Chapter 13

  Daugavpils, Latvia

  May 1999

  During our clandestine exchanges Valdis and I had spent time discussing ways and means of escape. These had ranged from digging tunnels, crawling along ventilation shafts or setting fires and initiating a mass breakout. Whichever option we chose, in the end we would always turn back to one imperative: the need for inside help.

  Janis Berzins was the head guard assigned to G Block, where we were housed. My case was well known to all the guards. I’d killed a pimp in a fight. I even enjoyed kudos among some of the prisoners as details of my crime leaked out. Valdis, on the other hand, was a mystery man. No one was quite sure why he was there. To use his word, the charges were opaque. Certainly, except for the three GRU heavies, no one suspected he was a spy. But Berzins, Valdis and myself all shared one thing in common: we were seafarers – past or present. And through that common background we had formed a bond.

  In White Swan there were around two hundred prisoners to each head guard. He had a number of assistants, who received only slightly better treatment from their boss than the prisoners themselves. Discipline was based largely on the caste system. Harsh though that regime was, in the absence of any effective control from the prison administration, it did work, in its own way.

  Our relationship with Berzins made our lives a little easier. He was a man in his middle forties, had served with the same Morflot fleet as Valdis, but as a senior rating in the engineroom, and had come ashore in the hope that, following independence and the prospect of Latvia’s EU membership, things could only get better. Only in the Latvian prison system where Soviet-era practices still prevailed, things weren’t getting better at all.

  Berzins spoke some English too. He had met plenty of Greeks, Indians and Filipinos in his seafaring days and, like most sailors, took an internationalist view towards mankind and the world around him. Valdis, and after a while myself too, cultivated what had become a furtive but nevertheless genuine friendship with him. And it was Berzins our thoughts turned to when we were discussing escape options.

  In the course of grooming Berzins we became increasingly confident that he would cooperate, provided we could offer him some kind of quid pro quo. Now, whenever I had time alone with him I would talk about Scotland and my love of the country. I’d talk about Greece too and the Greek shipowners I’d worked for. I was introducing him to a world he’d only glimpsed. Berzins had transitioned straight from Soviet-era shipboard life to Soviet-era prison life. The world I spoke of was foreign to him and he liked the sound of it. Increasingly he would deluge me with questions, which I readily answered, lending a nostalgic view of my own experiences and how much I missed my old life. I didn’t have to act the part.

  Finally, and after further discussion with Valdis, I broached the subject. Finding the opportunity to speak privately with anyone, let alone a senior guard, was never straightforward, but Berzins liked to share sailors’ stories with us and he’d often visit the laundry room when he knew we were working there.

  On this day, a week after my meeting the Farrington, he wandered in banging his truncheon on top of the machines as he passed to add to the din they were already making. ‘Why aren’t you working, you lazy bastards?’ he shouted in English. It was his standard greeting.

  I dived in: ‘Janis, we need to talk. Something important.’

  ‘What, you want to get out of here? Tell me something I didn’t know, eh?’

  ‘Actually, that is it. We need your help to get us out of here. I mean, all three of us. In return we’ll do everything we can to get you settled in the UK or any other EU country; start a new life – with some serious money in your pocket. We can’t guarantee it, but between us Valdis and I have influence. I’m expecting another visit from a senior British official with a lot more influence than us. When he comes you can make sure you’re on duty in the visiting room and you’ll see him. What do you think? He can help.’

  It was a risky approach. I had no idea at this point when or who my visitor would be, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be Dominic Farrington again.

  I thought I’d overplayed my hand. He stared at me as if I’d suggested he should join us on a trip to a distant planet. ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘Janis, forget it. We just get frustrated in here. Neither Valdis nor I belong in this place and you know it. I just thought …’

  ‘Okay, okay. I understand. Just let me think about it. It’s very risky, but let me think.’ He paused. ‘How to do it? And how much?’

  ‘We have a plan. And I’m sure something can be arranged that would satisfy you: money and help with visas, permits …’ I had no idea whether the British government would see the benefit of paying off a Latvian prison guard to assist in a breakout, but desperate times demanded desperate measures, I told myself.

  A week later I had a visitor. I hadn’t expected the Admiral to visit personally. And when he did, I hadn’t expected him to be wearing full dress uniform – gold braid, medals and all – but I was nonetheless surprised how ordinary he looked. Despite the warm weather he was wearing a grey overcoat under which was a grey suit. He was of average height. His hair was grey and thinning, and he wore glasses. He sat down behind the glass panel facing me. The light reflected off his glasses so I couldn’t see his eyes behind them. He sat motionless and when he spoke his voice was low and without accent or emphasis. It was hard to imagine him commanding a squadron of Her Majesty’s warships. It wasn’t so difficult to imagine him running a network of spies though. He might have been George Smiley’s brother.

  ‘Humming Bird is here I gather. Perhaps you would like to tell me how you think I can help you,’ he said. ‘Is it he or you I am here for?’

  I told him that mine was a case of justifiable homicide. I had acted in self defence and was therefore blameless and innocent. ‘As for my fello
w prisoner, I believe you know his case. You must understand that failing our prompt release from here we are committed to escape – do or die. And the guard standing behind you,’ I added, ‘is willing to assist in a breakout, under certain conditions.’

  Berzins was a good six metres away on the other side of the room and showing no sign of listening but I still spoke softly, leaning forward as I did.

  ‘Well, it’s very obliging of you to share your thoughts,’ the Admiral replied caustically. ‘They are nothing if not ambitious. I’ve already been looking at your case. But tell me about our friend? Is he well?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ I told him about the shower incident and how it had shaken him up. ‘I presume you want him out of here in one piece as much as he does. He has critical information to share.’

  ‘About what, precisely?’

  ‘Loose nukes.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘One warhead has been stolen from the Zeltini missile base. Our friend knows who took it and believes he can help track it down before it gets launched in anger. There may be others disappearing from Zeltini as we speak.’

  ‘I see. So who’s behind this?’

  ‘He says a rogue GRU gang.’

  ‘Any idea what kind of missiles we’re talking about?’

  ‘OTR-21 Tochka with a nuclear warhead. He said you’d understand.

  ‘Yes, short range ballistic missile, the SS-21 Scarab. It could wipe out a small city. Transported in a 9P129 vehicle. The missile is raised prior to launch. Presumably that was part of the consignment too?’

  ‘He mentioned the transporter, yes. Oh, and he has the launch code. It seems those who stole the missile omitted to take the code. He said this would be useful too, to keep it out of their hands.’

  ‘Humming Bird has it? How the hell did he get hold of that?’

  ‘He stole it. He said he’ll give you more information once he’s out.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t trust us. I can’t say I blame him. He must have lost faith in us, but you can assure him we’ve used all means to locate him. The last place we expected him to turn up was here. I’m presuming you know something of our friend’s background?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alright. Tell him this: we will pull him out as quickly and safely as we can. To be blunt, he’s a liability in here. If those GRU brutes, whether rogue or not, choose to interrogate him in earnest, he could give them an awful lot of information we would rather keep to ourselves. And now this missile business makes it doubly urgent. I’d rather have kept him in place where he was, as a Ventspils harbourmaster, but that’s out of the question now they’ve got him locked away in here. Any idea what he wants? Country cottage with roses and wisteria in the garden? That sort of thing?’

  ‘We haven’t got that far, but he’s concerned about his daughter in Vienna.’

  ‘Yes, we have her on file. I need to be in Vienna shortly to talk to the IAEA about this whole business – the maritime dimension of missiles going astray. It’s a potential nightmare. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Our friend standing behind you will need looking after too.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘And a ticket out, visa – facilitation. He’ll be in danger too if he remains in this country.’

  ‘Where does he want to go?’

  ‘Greece.’

  The Admiral leaned back in his chair. ‘I see. So, three of you. Well let’s see what can be done. I’ll be raising this to a high priority exfil. When your plans are finalised, ask to see the consul again. Next time it’ll be one of my people, and it’ll be quick. Give him a time and a date and where you all want to be met. We’ll take it from there. Can you manage that?’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘He and I share the same purpose. And he’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to end his days in this place.’

  ‘Yes, I agree.’

  He got up and gestured to Berzins to unlock the door.

  Chapter 14

  Daugavpils, Latvia

  June 1999

  Starting a prison riot, let alone controlling one, is not a simple task, but given the conditions in White Swan, it was a tinderbox of violence waiting to be ignited anyway. Overcrowding, understaffing, the brutal caste system – all contributed, but the spark that ignited it came from Berzins. The caste system imposed and sustained by the prisoners themselves had become an institution in itself. So the changes Berzins started introducing, aimed at destabilising the fragile status quo, quickly became deeply unpopular.

  It began with the haircuts: shaved heads all round. Then came a strictly enforced smoking ban, and most contentious of all, a mixing of the three castes at meal times. Old rules that had been ignored for years were suddenly enforced and accompanied by random and savage beatings administered with truncheons by Berzins and his men. What made it worse was that these measures were only applied in G Block. And Berzins’ junior colleagues had no choice but to follow his lead as he was only following long-established prison rules, never mind that they hadn’t been obeyed for as long as anyone could remember. But quite deliberately now, enforcement of the rules was inconsistent and arbitrary. Prisoners began complaining about putrid food too. Berzins had been in the kitchens telling the cooks to serve food that was on the verge of going rotten in order to avoid wastage.

  His justification was simple. He had been ordered to break the caste system. Bringing it down had been a standing order for years, but no one had had the balls to try. When Berzins stepped forward offering to do it, his superiors consented because they knew it simply meant complying with the rules. They could hardly object. What they didn’t realise was the abruptness and severity with which it would be carried out. Other blocks would follow but G Block was where it would start. Over the next two weeks the pressure built. How long can this go on, Valdis would ask. Other prisoners, VIPs particularly, would ask the same question. You could feel the tension: the look on their faces, their body language, their furtive conversations. A sense of foreboding took hold.

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but it’s imminent.’ I told the Admiral’s man when he visited. ‘Can you have your people standing by starting tomorrow, every day?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ I said. ‘I need your assurance. The situation is highly volatile.’

  ‘I can see that. Don’t worry. We’ll be ready.’

  ‘So from tomorrow 0600 hours, or is that a bit too early for you?’

  ‘Alright then,’ he sighed, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘There’s a track across the road from the west wall. We’ll be in the trees there, watching 24/7 from 0600. Does that work for you?’

  ‘Yes. What sort of transport? So we can recognise you?’

  ‘It’ll be a Lada.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Grey.’

  Three days later a group of prisoners rushed into G Block’s dining hall and barricaded themselves inside just after ten in the morning. It was a rampage. They destroyed furniture and smashed anything else they could lay their hands on. Tables and chairs flew. The two attendants in charge of clearing up after breakfast escaped back into the kitchen but the prisoners followed, taking them both hostage.

  Then inmates from other blocks surged past guards and into the central exercise yard. A tower guard fired a shot at a prisoner trying to climb over an internal fence. The man fell to the ground and lay still. This triggered an uproar. As the situation escalated, fires were started, guards were beaten and after a few hours it was clear that the inmates had taken control of the whole prison. Word spread that sixteen were dead, both guards and prisoners, and many others injured. At around four in the afternoon a couple of police helicopters were seen hovering overhead. But they were only there to survey the situation and soon flew off. At six that evening a detachment of heavily armed police arrived to restore order which, over several more hours of violence and chaos, they succeeded in doing. The insurrection had been quel
led. For now. But the atmosphere was tense and febrile.

  Throughout the day we saw no sign of our GRU friends, which made me uneasy. But it was time for us to go, Berzins included. He had supplied us both with guards’ uniforms, which we struggled into. Our escape route was through G Block’s laundry room, where we’d spent so much time on work duty and knew the layout back to front. On one side of the long room were lines of old washing machines, half of which were either worn out, had been smashed up, or were otherwise out of use. On the other side were the laundry carts, where sheets and clothing were dumped. At the far end was a large steel door covered in flaking orange paint. This led out to a yard into which the trucks would reverse to deliver the clean and pick up the dirty laundry. This was from years ago, before the machines had been installed. These days the door was never used, until now.

  We stood outside the laundry room awaiting Berzins’ signal telling us the coast was clear, which came after less than a minute: a short, barked command. We entered and hurried to where he was waiting by the orange door. An attending guard lay slumped in a heap beside him. Berzins returned his truncheon into its belt loop, removed a ring of keys from the unconscious guard’s own belt and unlocked the heavy door.

  Outside it was raining heavily. We moved quickly up across a yard towards the gate that led out of the prison. There were watchtowers either side of this external gate, each within firing range. The whole scene was lit by powerful search lights. Puddles of water bounced a shimmering light off the ground. Sirens were wailing and uniformed guards and police were running in all directions. The suppression of the riot hadn’t lasted.