by Nick Elliott
‘You know what Archie also said? That Cold War will not end with fall of Communism. There would be new Cold War. Why? Because Russia without mighty Soviet Union as protection against West would feel very vulnerable. And that will cause paranoia in its leaders. I believe Millennium will see new Cold War. Already we see these GRU guys buying nuclear weapons and selling on to highest bidder: Black Hand, Al-Qaeda, who next?’
‘Which brings us nicely to the matter in hand,’ the Admiral interrupted. ‘Let’s go back to our Tochka and the good ship Aegean Leader, loaded onto which was that very missile only a few short months ago. We brought both ship and missile into the harbour at Akrotiri, had the missile examined to confirm it was the same one that originated in the Zeltini base and found its way to the Golija mountains from where, as we know, it was transported back to Abkhazia. And indeed, it was armed with a one hundred kiloton nuclear warhead. This much you know, or will have guessed. What you don’t know is that imprisoned on board the Aegean Leader in a small makeshift citadel, ostensibly installed to protect crewmembers against pirate attacks, was Colonel Fedir Oliynyk, a retired officer from the 37th Guards Rocket Division of Ukraine’s 43rd Rocket Army. We took him ashore, fed him, then interrogated him. He talked freely, and for good reason. He had been abducted by a group of ex-GRU criminals whose intention was to coerce Oliynyk into arming the Tochka for them. Oliynyk had access to the PAL code and he had the knowledge to do this, but he had the motivation too, for they had abducted his twelve-year-old son and were holding the boy to ransom. Sadly, we learned the boy’s body had been found with a bullet in his head, dumped by the road outside the city of Starokostiantyniv, not far from where Oliynyk lived and had worked. Bear in mind that Ukraine has been an independent state for the last nine years. Furthermore, since 1994 the country has agreed to destroy its Soviet nuclear weapons and join the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons. Clearly, this didn’t deter our GRU boys, but when Oliynyk fell into our hands they saw no reason to keep the boy alive and in murdering him sent a gruesome message to anyone interfering with their nefarious activities. We must assume this is now their modus operandi, their business model if you like.
‘We’ve handed the case over to Vauxhall Bridge but since shipping is their preferred mode of transport for moving these weapons around, the IMTF has an important role to play, an ongoing role.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked. ‘Not only can’t you prevent these nukes falling into the wrong hands, but when they do, the bad guys – GRU or whoever – only need to identify the right man capable of accessing the PAL codes, then kidnap a family member as ransom.’
‘Yes, that would seem to be the case. And in answer to your question – where do we go from here? – that is what we’re here to discuss. Valdis has made it quite clear he wants to be involved. He knows that cannot mean a return to his field agent days. His proposal to me was that you, Angus, be appointed as his proxy in the field. I told him it was a splendid idea. I then took the liberty of having a quiet word with Grant Douglas. He was not averse to the idea either. He said it would be symbiotic. I believe we can make good use of you, but perhaps we can have your own thoughts?’
Which, I said, I was not ready to give him. I wanted to talk it through with Valdis first, and I recalled Grant Douglas’s ominous warnings of lawless impunity on the high seas.
Early that evening we piled into two taxis and drove the few miles north to Rick’s Café. Tourists and locals flock here at sunset to watch and try their hand at the cliff jumping. Every so often the lifeguard has a go from an even higher platform, and for this he expects a tip. The sunset was spectacular, which was more than could be said for the house punch they served. I was going to switch to Red Stripe when Valdis took my arm and spoke to the Admiral and the girls.
‘Angus and I want to share drink for old times’ sake. There’s little bar I have down the road. I promised to take him there.’ There wasn’t much the Admiral could do about it. He’d become so used to ‘running the show’, as he put it, that to see Valdis neatly side-step him gave me a perverse pleasure. We left them to it and walked along the beach to Harry’s Bar, where Valdis had befriended the barman. I noticed how Valdis walked with a heavy limp and even that short distance got him wheezing, but it didn’t seem to affect his spirits.
Inside, there was the ubiquitous reggae playing – mostly Bob Marley or one of his offspring – and half a dozen customers gazing out at the sunset.
‘Hey man, who’s your friend? You both having the usual?’ Harry had already begun mixing the drinks.
Valdis introduced us. ‘Harry makes good Martinis. Now is good time for you. Try one. Remember, you will be meeting different kind of people now. Not like your shipmates. You must make changes: maybe pint in pub in the docks one night and Martini in luxury hotel bar next.’
‘Okay, you’ve twisted my arm.’ I was seeing a new side of Valdis: relaxed and expansive, despite everything he’d been through.
The drinks came. ‘Thank you, Harry,’ he said, then turning to me, ‘Three ounces gin, half ounce vermouth – that is best, shaken in plenty of ice. But two is enough for me these days.’ You can guess who introduced me to this habit.’
‘Archie?’
‘Yes, Archie. He was a great enthusiast.’
We raised our glasses and drank. He nodded towards the bar. ‘Harry is not his real name. It’s so he can call it Harry’s Bar, just down road from Rick’s Café!’
I took another sip. ‘That’s damn good, Valdis. But what was it you wanted to tell me? Was it about what happened on that bloody mountain?’
‘No, I don’t talk about that. With Iveta I have many conversations about our experiences. We must move on. Leave it behind.’
‘Good. That sounds wise. Do you still remember the code?’
‘Of course. But I tell no one: not Admiral, not Delfina or Iveta. And not you. Goes with me to grave. But of course, Oliynyk had it. There is always someone who has these codes in former USSR. But for me the code is special, sacred I think. More than just numbers and letters. When I took it I knew I was doing something important.’
‘It was symbolic then.’
‘Yes, for me code was not just a lock. It represent many things wrong in the world that must be stopped. Do you understand? That’s why I wanted it, to keep it locked, in here.’ He tapped his head.
‘I understand, like a metaphor – it represents your moral code.’
‘Yes, moral code. To stop killing of innocent people - everywhere.’
I’d never thought of it like that and I hadn’t realised he had either. He shook his head as if to clear his mind of something that, for him, was already resolved, dealt with.
‘I was going to tell you about Delfina.’
‘She’s lovely. You’re a lucky man to have her with you after all this time.’
‘I know this, although it is hard for me to forget what the British did.’
‘What do you mean?’
He turned to look directly at me. ‘Delfina was agent for British after we met. First for Naval Intelligence then later, when IMTF was formed, for them. She worked for MI6 too. She was full-time spy living all time in great danger for her life. GRU questioned her there in Cuba when investigating my case. She hated them. Vicious men, she said. Then she was talked to by local man. He was go-between. Introduced her to British case officer. First she was used to report ship movements in and out of Mariel port, then she visited other ports. She never had proper cover story. She was very good at talking her way out of difficult situations. It was for a college project she was working on; or she was visiting friends or relatives. She was a natural. After missile crisis and withdrawal of Soviet ships, she worked more for MI6 than Naval Intelligence. That was very dangerous. She was spying on Cuban Politburo members. MI6 persuaded her to work as honey trap.’
‘And she did?’
‘Yes. Like me, she believed in a cause, against Communism.’
‘So you lived
parallel lives without knowing it. Did she ever marry?’
‘No.’
‘Was it Delfina who told Naval Intelligence about you after they recruited her? That you would make a good recruit too? That you could be turned?’
‘Yes. It was her. Only now do I know this.’
He called Harry for another drink, then, smiling, he gripped my forearm. ‘Imagine my surprise when she arrives here. Admiral arranged it. And once we had talked about it, of course we knew we had both lived not normal lives. Both done things we did not like to do. But when we had talked, and talked, we knew love was still there. We had only been together for one night. Now, so many years later, we knew we still had love.’
He paused. ‘I wanted to tell you this story, because you know, Dr Kirstin was in Swiss clinic with me some of the time. She talked about you. She wanted to know everything.’
‘And what did you tell her?’
He laughed. ‘Of course, I told her everything!’
‘I see. Well, I was planning to return via Scotland. I thought the Admiral might have invited her over here.’
‘He did, but not possible. She had big family party at home in Scotland. You know, my friend, we’ve seen so many bad things, much pain and death. We must find love and happiness while we can.’
Harry brought the second round of Martinis across to where we were sitting. The sun had sunk below the sea now and we raised our glasses again.
‘I agree. So to tomorrow then,’ I said.
‘Yes, and to peace.’
‘And to peace. You know what Ronald Reagan said?’
‘Yes, peace is not the absence of conflict, it is the ability to handle conflict by peaceful means.’
The End
In case you enjoyed The Code, I’ve included here the Prologue to Sea of Gold, where, two years after these events, Angus McKinnon takes up his story.
Sea Of Gold
‘There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the flood,
Leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.’
William Shakespeare, ‘Julius Caesar’, Act 4, Scene 3
Prologue
April 2002
Levan eased the car out from where he’d parked and sounded the horn to warn the young drunk weaving across our path in front of the airport. As we took off I caught sight of him in the wing mirror. Staggering, he flung the bottle towards us before fading away in our cloud of dust. The bottle shattered against the back of the car. It was eight-thirty in the morning.
‘Welcome to Tbilisi,’ said Levan as we drove away. We were heading north towards the city centre amidst commuter traffic and the occasional horse and cart.
‘It reminds me of home,’ I said to reassure him that early morning drunks were not exclusive to Georgia.
Levan glanced at me. ‘You told me once that Greece was a café society. They’re not big drinkers are they?’
‘I was thinking of Scotland.’
‘Ah! That’s the weather. You drink to forget how miserable it is, eh?’
‘Something like that.’ I didn’t want to get into a discussion about the Scots’ drinking habits.
‘You live in Greece, Angus. Isn’t that home for you now?’
‘I travel between the two but yes, I guess Greece is home.’ The truth was I was not too sure where I belonged.
Georgia’s roads weren’t the finest example of civil engineering back in those days. We cleared the city and took the road to Poti, a three hundred kilometre obstacle course of potholes, some the size of small bomb craters. Perhaps that’s what they were.
Levan flung the old Mercedes round them or just ploughed straight through. With no seat belt I braced myself, feet against the bulkhead between the foot-well and the engine.
‘Relax will you,’ he shouted above the noise from the engine. ‘I drive down here every few weeks. I know this road like the palm of my hand.’
He lit a foul-smelling cigarette and swerved to avoid an old Soviet-era truck that was veering towards us.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘It’s a panic reaction,’ I said. ‘Anyway, you mean like the back of your hand.’
‘No, like my palm,’ he argued.
‘Have it your own way, Levan. Tell me about these guys will you? You said they were from Ossetia. Which one, North or South?’
‘For sure they’re from Ossetia. Probably North. It doesn’t make much difference.
‘It might to me,’ I said. ‘I want to hear the whole story. And before we get to Poti.’
‘My friend, it is complicated,’ he began. Levan Beridze was a lawyer. He liked things complicated.
‘When the good old USSR collapsed,’ he began, ‘the KGB left a few unexploded “devices” for us here in Georgia. They encouraged ethnic conflicts which had been festering for many years. They, how do you say it, stirred things up. They did this so they could justify keeping their military bases in our country to “assist” us in settling any outbreaks of ethnic unrest that they themselves were keeping warmed up. Ossetia was one of those time bombs.’
We were out of the city now, travelling through orchards and vineyards then, as we went further, through meadows carpeted with wildflowers. We passed hayricks and ragged boys herding goats. To our right the snowy peaks of the North Caucasus shone in the bright sunlight of early spring.
‘Ossetia was always part of our homeland,’ Levan said morosely. ‘They took it from us.’ The drooping moustache and dark patches under his eyes added to the sense of a man who had regrets about many things in life, but Levan was not a depressive. He was a jovial old bear. I remembered a time in Istanbul when we’d been at the same conference. In the evening, at a nightclub in Besiktas, he was the life and soul of the party; carousing and competing with the belly-dancers, singing Georgian folksongs over the bus’s PA system on the way back to the hotel. The Georgians like to sing, and everyone liked Levan.
As I understood it, the Russians had established a strategic military platform in North Ossetia, a friendly neighbour in a troubled region they would argue, in order to control unruly breakaway republics in the North Caucasus which they considered were within their sphere of influence: enclaves like Chechnya, Ingushetia, Dagestan and Abkhazia. But I wasn’t going to argue the politics with Levan. I was more concerned with the matter in hand.
Which was that a cargo of ethyl alcohol discharged from a ship called the Med Runner had been released from the port of Poti to a bunch of gangsters against production of false documents. If it had been that alone it would have been just another case for me, but it had become a whole lot more complicated when the Caledonian Marine Mutual P&I Association had, in its infinite wisdom, sent a rookie case-handler to Poti to deal with it. And the case-handler had failed to report back.
Grant Douglas was Chief Executive of the CMM, and he didn’t phone often. The P&I Club, as such mutuals were known, offered shipowners protection and indemnity cover against third-party liabilities including claims for loss of cargo. As their correspondent in the East Med I didn’t show up on Grant’s radar much, but this was different and I sensed the anxiety in his normally urbane New England manner.
Why the hell did you send her, I’d asked. Surely he knew that pretty much all trade involving alcohol in these parts was controlled by violent criminal gangs?
‘I made a judgement, Gus. That line’s been trading in and out of Poti for a couple of years now and this is the first trouble they’ve had.’
‘Sure, Grant, the Caucasus where as we all know business is conducted to the highest ethical standards and if you have a complaint you simply report it to the relevant authority on the requisite form and they will see to it straightaway.’
‘Your sarcasm can be tiring. I know what these pla
ces are like but Claire was persuasive and finally we agreed it would be good experience for her to go.
‘And anyway, these people must learn what it means to follow the rule of law if they want to do business with the West.’
I laughed. ‘Really? I’ll be sure to tell them that.’
Claire Scott was in her mid-twenties and considered a rising star in the CMM. For all I knew, she’d never been beyond the French Riviera, never mind to Georgia which, when all this blew up, was not the kind of place to send anyone on their first case.
Grant was unrepentant. ‘We briefed her thoroughly. She knew she was to investigate the release of the cargo against fraudulent bills of lading, and no more than that. We made it clear to her that chasing down the crooks was not part of the brief. She knows the Club Rules as well as you and I do.’
‘The shippers claimed against the line who, in this case are the ship’s charterers. They passed it on to the owners who’ve passed it on to us. We’ll negotiate with cargo underwriters and settle on the best terms we can manage, provided we’re satisfied the master or his agent weren’t complicit or negligent in releasing the cargo to the wrong consignee. You know how it works.’
He paused again. Then his voice hardened. ‘Just go and get her out of there will you?’
And so it was that we were rattling along the road to Poti. Levan knew how these cases worked as well as Grant Douglas and I did – that Claire Scott’s job had been to ascertain with reasonable certainty what had happened to the cargo, not to play cops and robbers. He’d taken her down this same road and left her in Poti just a week earlier, since when no one had heard a word from her.