by John Gardner
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Mama said you knew.’
‘I wasn’t certain we would get away. It appears your father’s fixed things.’
‘He can fix anything.’ She threw her dress to one side of the bedroom. ‘He can fix anything, except me, my darling Naldo.’ She leaped towards him, and he felt his body react. It was odd, Kati stirred him so quickly. It was as though he was a young boy again, yet to complete the act with her he always had to imagine it was Barbara.
Later that night he lay in the dark and thought of Barbara. His real wife. Only a month and he might well be back with her, and that would be a relief. With Kati he had to pretend all the time: not that it was much of a pretence when she got him roused, yet he still had to have Barb’s body in his mind, behind the closed eyes and the fencing tongues.
He dropped into sleep imagining he was back in the house off Kensington Gore, lying quietly beside his wife. Could she forgive? Yes. Yes, she must understand. Anyway, he could always mention the photograph. That would bring tears before bedtime.
The next morning, Naldo took a devious route to work, passing the old woman who was Box 12. He bought a small posy of flowers to put on his office desk, and asked the question. There was a crumpled piece of flimsy paper wrapped around the posy.
In his office he thrust the paper into his pocket and took it to the toilets with him, sitting in the bare cubicle and unbuttoning Herbie’s reply, before burning the paper and flushing it away. At lunchtime he sought out Arnold and suggested a walk.
They went through the Byelorusski Railway Station and out into Gorky Street, with the statue of Gorky looking old and dirty, even though it had only been there since the early 1950s.
‘My people can’t get us out,’ he told Arnie, without any dramatics. Inside he had already felt the clutch of panic. He had imagined that Herbie, with his contacts in the East, could have fixed something, even if it was only a fake fishing boat to carry them along the coast to Turkey.
Arnold’s voice was very level. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, turning and smiling. ‘It can be done from this end. I’ve discussed it with the general. He can fix papers, and we can use his car. Official delegation, driving to Ankara. That do you?’
‘Risky. The place’ll be swarming …’
‘Trust Spatukin.’ Arnie said sharply. ‘He’s our one big hope.’ He laughed, and Naldo suddenly wondered about Gloria.
‘How’s Gloria getting out?’ he asked, fast, as though Arnold had become suspect.
‘How d’you think? She’s off in a couple of weeks. I have approval for her to visit the kids, in Paris.’
‘Won’t your friends in Washington snatch her?’
‘No way. It’s sewn up, Nald. Stop worrying. Get a message back to Herb, or whoever’s running your side of things. We should be crossing into Turkey — probably at Batumi — late on May 12th or 13th.’
Naldo bought another posy on the following morning. His message to Herbie was short, and read, ‘Expect to make it on our own. Probably crossing into Turkey at Batumi sometime on 12th or 13th.’
Herbie flashed C, who breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That we can handle,’ he told Kruger. I’ll set the wheels in motion. We need people there to see it goes smoothly.’
By the following day it had all changed.
‘We’re going to crash out in Spatukin’s chopper.’ Again they were in Gorky Street at lunchtime. It was a warm spring day, and people sat on the railway station steps, eating rolls of black bread filled with salted herring, or goat’s cheese, if they were lucky. Others simply ate the bread. Food was still a luxury in Moscow. Long queues formed as soon as there was a hint of some delicacy.
‘Is that his decision?’
‘He told me to let you know. He reckons directly after you get Alex. That’ll be the night of the 12th.’
‘I’m to do it?’
‘Who else? The bastard sold Caspar down the river. He was your uncle. We both felt it was your job.’
Naldo smiled. ‘Good. I thought there might be an argument. Who’s going to fly the chopper, and which way do we go?’
‘Spatukin’s doing the flying. His personal pilot’s taking us down, on the 11th. That’ll be a full day’s trip with stops for refuelling. Kati is going by train, ahead — three days before us. You get briefed and we do it just after dark on the 12th and go straight away. The general says he’ll plot a course straight over the sea, flying very low. Your folks’ll have to clear the way for him. We’ll try to make it near a place called Sinop, bang on the north coast.’
‘The general’s chopper …?’ Naldo began.
‘You’re not going to like this, Nald. It’s an elderly Ka-18. Been around a long time, but Spatukin’s apparently a very good pilot.’
‘I’m not so concerned about him. What’s his official pilot like.’
‘Terrible.’ Arnold had the decency to smile.
The next morning, Naldo purchased more spring flowers. Late that evening, Herbie put out a ‘London’s burning’ call for C.
3
C spent a week having talks with people in the Foreign Office. As far as the shop was concerned the old man was taking some leave. In truth, C wished he was on leave, because the Foreign Secretary himself was unhappy about the whole business.
‘You say this thing’s got to be contained, yet we’re going to be forced to call off the Turkish Air Force. That’ll get back to the Sovs faster than sound,’ he grumbled.
‘Not if you give me control of it, sir.’ C always made a habit of calling the minister ‘sir’. He said any officer in the SIS should by rights genuflect to the PM as well. The Foreign Secretary and the PM were the only people in London who could give them support when it was most needed.
Reluctantly, the Foreign Office said they would take the PM’s instructions as binding, once C had spoken. He went over to Downing Street that night and put his case. A high-ranking Soviet defector, and one of his own men, not to mention a member of their cousins’ service. After three hours of questioning and cross-questioning, the Prime Minister agreed. That night C telephoned Herbie at home, something unheard of, and told him it was a ‘go’.
‘Now all we have to do is work out our own cover, and detail the best people to be there. I’m told this place on the coast, Sinop, is supposed to be a fun city, as our cousins would say. Used to belong to the Greeks, centuries ago.’
‘Sod Greeks,’ Herbie grunted. ‘I go, chief. Send me. I greet Naldo.’
‘It’s not a question of greeting Naldo, Herbie. You have to think logically about this. It’s a question of arresting Naldo. In the service’s book, Naldo Railton’s a defector until he proves otherwise. So, you certainly do not go to Turkey.’
‘OK, but don’t worry, Chief. Naldo come up smelling of violence.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of. I think you mean violets, Herbert.’ C became very formal. ‘You keep every orifice in your body closed. I want nobody to be aware of what’s going on.’
Nobody became aware until it was all over, and it was to C’s credit that, to the very few people involved, the operation was dubbed Violet.
Over the next few weeks, C saw several people, in secret, mostly at night. The British Ambassador, and the local SIS resident, came into London for twenty-four hours from Ankara. In a small restaurant near Trafalgar Square, C had a quiet dinner with the Turkish Ambassador, and, two nights later, met the air attaché from the Turkish Embassy.
On 8 May, two quite senior field officers, coded Menelaus and Thersites left for Turkey. (Later, in open seminars at Warminster, C was criticized for using unsafe cryptos — both names being taken from Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida. Some felt this gave the game away regarding the operation having some bearing on the Railton family, whose God was the Bard.)
The stage was set and they had even put a man into Sochi, just in case.
At seven o’clock on the morning of 11th May, General Spatukin’s fat little Ka-18 helicopter took off from Moscow’s mil
itary air base. Their flight time, including stops for refuelling, was nine hours, so, with the hour’s time difference, they should arrive at Spatukin’s dacha around five that evening. Just in time for sunset over the Caucasus,’ the General had said, as they drank coffee in the officers’ canteen. ‘You will like it, Railton. You’ll like Sochi very much. There’s still some building going on. We started to enlarge the resort in ’61, but there’s now something for everyone. Particularly ourselves.’
Two days later, a small number of people in Turkey and London began to get the familiar feeling of butterflies in their stomachs. One of them was Herbie Kruger.
C had told him not to expect anything until around six in the evening. There was a four-hour time difference between London and Sochi. If anything happened before six, they would call him in. Otherwise Herbie had been asked to be in C’s office at 6.30.
When the red telephone rang in the Annexe at four minutes to five, Herbie knew before he picked it up, that there was trouble.
‘At zero, scramble the line.’ He recognized C’s voice.
‘Five … four … three … two … one … Zero.’ Herbie pressed the button. ‘OK.’
‘No!’ It was the first time he had ever heard C really flustered. ‘I want you over here now, Kruger. We have a major disaster on our hands.’
‘What is …?’
‘Tass has just broadcast a flash report. There’s been a shooting among the private dachas at Sochi. They’ve arrested an Englishman on charges of espionage. He’s been named. Donald Arthur Railton.’
NINETEEN
1
The arrival in Sochi was spectacular. The helicopter came in over the mountains just as the sun began to set, so that the view was that of a town bathed in blood.
Sochi is probably the most popular of all the Black Sea resorts, and has particular relevance to the Soviets, for its growth in importance has only come since the revolution. In all it is only a little over one hundred years old. Before the mid-nineteenth century it was almost a village, and called Shatche. There was a military stronghold, Fort Alexander, and in Roman times the waters of the local springs were known to have healing properties. Even today, people crowd into the town to take the waters, as they do at spas throughout Europe. Sochi is a place of rest and healing.
In 1937 the serious development began, and was interrupted by the Great Patriotic War, during which there was much fighting, and more heroism in the area. Only in 1961, eight years before, had the development continued, adding an entire new area known as Greater Sochi.
As the helicopter dropped towards the wooded foothills, Naldo saw the long stretch of seaboard, and the town stretching back towards the mountains of the Caucasus, laid out with broad streets, houses and apartment blocks that were, incredibly, quite elegant. As they began to descend, other things could be seen, sanatoria, parks, gardens, hotels and villas. No wonder Sochi was a much-loved place. Naldo thought it reminded him a little of Nice on the Côte d’Azur.
The dachas, which were holiday homes for those counted among the nomenklatura, were shielded from the road which ran down into Greater Sochi, each little estate lying in grounds that were carved out of woodland.
The woods, mainly of tall firs, remained intact close to the road. Tracks, large enough to take a vehicle, were the only sign that, behind the deep screen of trees, there were places barred to the full-time residents of Sochi, or to normal visitors and holidaymakers.
The fat little Ka-18 skimmed over the treetops, then slowed. The trees seemed to break apart, revealing a large clearing. Below them now, there was a lawn the size of a tennis court, bordered by gardens with paved walks, and trellised bowers.
The helicopter settled gently onto the lawn, behind the dacha.
The house itself faced them: three storeys high, made from clapboard and surrounded by a wide deck-like porchway. The lights were on and Kati, who had left three days earlier, came out onto the deck as they disembarked.
Inside, the rooms were panelled in pine, designed in a Scandinavian style. From the pictures on the wall to the linen, cutlery and furniture, the house could have been the second home of some capitalist baron. It reeked of privilege, and Spatukin showed them around with pride.
Naldo was taken to the room he shared with Kati, and after Moscow it was like a five-star hotel. There was a huge circular bed, something he had only seen in recent copies of Playboy magazine. By the side of the main bedhead a console of controls jutted upwards, from which he could remotely activate the door lock, television, radio and the curtains which covered two large windows looking out onto the lawn. The bathroom was filled with the latest in American sanitaryware, with many extras: well-lit mirrors, an electric shaver and toothbrush, a large circular bath and a shower.
Naldo showered and changed into comfortable light-weight slacks and shirt. He had brought, on Arnie’s instructions, a pair of black soft training shoes. Now, feeling relaxed and excited at the prospect of what was to come, he went downstairs.
Dinner was already prepared and waiting for them. There appeared to be three servants, not counting the helicopter pilot, who disappeared almost as soon as they landed. Later that evening, Naldo learned that the servants, and any of the retinue of a visiting official, lived in a small but comfortable dacha well away from the main house.
They ate in classic style, huge portions of smoked salmon, caviar and cold meats, with pirozhki, delicious small pies made from rich sweet pastry and filled with cabbage, boiled eggs, salmon, rice and mushrooms. The wines were Georgian, for Sochi lies close to the Georgian border, sweet, heady and breathtaking. Naldo wondered how the ordinary Muscovites were faring that evening.
When the food had been cleared away, and the servants gone, Spatukin drew them all around the table. ‘Kati knows why we’re here,’ he began. ‘We do it tomorrow night, well, you do it, Naldo Railton, but we are all involved. It is impossible for one to carry it out alone. I suggest that, to begin with, we take a short ride tonight, so you can all see the target.’
Outside, on the gravel at the front of the house, stood an American jeep, Great Patriotic War vintage, restored and lovingly maintained. ‘We get the spares in through Finland,’ the general said. He then explained that their target lived — ‘very securely’ — in a dacha similar to his own.
‘But his is strongly guarded,’ he warned. ‘They have it surrounded by a high mesh fence, and there are always two guards on duty — KGB border troops who come here to the local garrison, as a kind of rest from the tougher areas, like the East-West border. The entire place is floodlit during the dark hours, and normally you cannot get near to it without being challenged. Tomorrow, I have made arrangements, but we’ll come to that later.’
They drove down the track from the general’s dacha and turned right onto the main road. About five miles up the slightly inclining road, he slowed the vehicle. Already they had passed two other entrances to dachas — ‘Nobody is down here at the moment,’ the general said, ‘only ourselves and the target.’ So, Alex’s dacha lay about a mile into the woods, three dachas down from Spatukin’s residence.
Even from the road you could see the floodlights, sending a shaft of brilliance up through the trees. ‘Tomorrow night, at about 9.30, we go up that track,’ Spatukin told them as he turned the jeep back in the direction of his own dacha.
More wine was brought, and they sat, conspirators, around the big pine table in the dining room. Spatukin had some maps and paper spread around him. He passed Naldo a plan which was obviously Alex’s dacha.
‘Tomorrow, I have arranged for certain things to happen. We leave here at exactly 9.15 in the evening. Under normal circumstances, we would drive up the track and would be halted here.’ His finger moved down to a point which was roughly twenty-five yards from the gates in the mesh fence. ‘We will reach that point at exactly 9.30, and at 9.25 there will be a power failure.’
He looked around the table and smiled. ‘Also, when the two guards disappear to find out the cause
of this failure, they will accidentally leave the gate in the fence open. The house lights will not be affected, but our little car will be right in the dark. You, Naldo,’ his finger stabbed out, ‘you leave us at this point. We will have the vehicle turned around and pulled close into the trees for the return journey. The floodlight system which protects the gardens and track will be out for half an hour, as will the telephones. So, the lights go out as we approach. You leave and go straight to the gate, here,’ his finger again jabbed the plan.
‘The house lights should guide you, and my intelligence is that the target will be in the house, together with a young woman. Nobody else. They should be just completing their evening meal. Your friend, Naldo, keeps to a fairly strict timetable. He breakfasts at nine, exercises at ten, lunches at one in the afternoon, dines at nine and — forgive me, little Katya — fucks between 10.30 and midnight. If it is a warm day — and the reports are good — he will be dining here.’ Again the finger. ‘Usually, on warm evenings, like tonight, they eat with the windows open. If they are closed you will go straight to the front door and ring the bell, hard and loud. He will, of course, think it is one of the guards.’ Spatukin paused, then spoke with emphasis, ‘Whichever way you go, it is essential that you make sure the man is dead. You also kill the woman.’
‘But —’ Naldo began. He did not think of shooting Oleg Penkovsky as murder. The girl was another matter.
‘You kill them both,’ the general commanded. ‘It is absolutely essential to the whole of this operation. I’m leaving a mess behind in any case, but you don’t want the alarm raised sooner that it has to be. Nor do you want anyone in the house to be able to describe you with accuracy. It must be done quickly. You go in and do it fast, then you get out fast. We have to be up the road and into the helicopter before anyone realizes what has happened.’
The general gave a humourless laugh. ‘I want to be airborne and out of Russian airspace in double-quick time. We all rely on you.’