The Desolate Garden

by Daniel Kemp

  He signed up for the regular Army, passed all their boards, and was commissioned a Captain. Within nine months this was in November 2001, he was with the Special Services in Afghanistan. He wrote, or called me, which was worse because every time the phone rang I thought it could be his father or mother and the news would be bad. I should have walked away, Harry. No sane person looks death in the face every day, as he did. My father told me once how he measured bravery. He said there were two kinds. One was irrational, spontaneous, heat of the battle stuff. 'You're pinned down by machine-gun fire when someone charges the pillbox, in open ground, and blows it to high heaven.' The other sort was more calculated, fully conscious of the risks to yourself. 'You've had time to weigh up the situation and death is the odds-on favourite, but still you go in, putting the lives of others before your own.'

  They had said that they were short on trained men and equipment, and so it was to be a quick turnaround. They had ten days leave maximum and they counted from the day you set off! All heart, that Blair, and the rest of them, with their free wheeling holidays up each others' bums. I think it was round about this time that he declared he found God, the sanctimonious prick. Next thing he was the Middle East expert…the only thing he was expert on was pissing on other people. I'm sorry…I got into one, didn't I?

  I married Tony on that leave; I put all that my brain told me away. I'd even told myself that I would be a widow, a brave dead soldier's wife, but nothing and nobody could stop me from doing that. He was posthumously promoted to Major, and the citation read something along the lines of 'in honour of his thoughtless bravery.' Tony was among many good men that died. Had they have known the truth, and not what Blair and his cronies peddled, do you think they would have gone, Harry? I wish my Tony hadn't. He was too good to die, and leave me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Harvesting

  The meeting in Moscow had unnerved Paulo, a sensation he rarely felt. He had lived on the edge all his life in one way or another, but this was different, and much closer to home. The kneeling figure of John the Steadfast was a last-resort card to play, and nothing in his son's life had indicated its need. The description given to Paulo of the depositor of that print in St Anslems did not match the ones he had been given of George since he had first seen his son in Maudlin's photographs, but it came close to another. George had used Grönwohld on several occasions, forwarding on Jack's insights into the English commercial and political life, when his father had notified him as to which hotel to leave his messages.

  Paulo's friends, both in Russia and the Middle East, avidly embraced Jack's company's products in ever-increasing numbers. Mr Simmons grew rich investing his money in further projects, as did Paulo with the commissions he made. George had last used the drop-off point eight months earlier, and had been described by Dietmar as no different to the other times. A man in his late forties or early fifties, about five foot ten inches, with black hair, hazel eyes, an average build and a goatee beard nothing like the description of this caller, but very much like the same person Paulo had heard of years ago. The other difference to the man, on this occasion, was that he had wanted to be seen. George had not.

  Since Maudlin's death, Paulo's motives for assisting the English Secret Services had changed slightly. Money had ceased to be one of his incentives, since George had been given a position in the Paterson home in 1970, and, he had accepted as the truth that Maudlin could not go on indefinitely siphoning off money from wherever it was that his father was finding it. He had no knowledge of a private bank, nor did he make a connection to George's name. Had he done so, who knows the outcome?

  Another incentive had gone completely: Maudlin. Paulo had great regard for the Old Man, considering himself a 'chip off the old block,' as he father had once declared him to be. He believed it, and took pride in his words. Now, however, his reasons for continuing were twofold; one being pride in his success and undoubted ability, the other the safety and welfare of his son. He was caught in a situation that he had made, that much was true, however, at its onset, not even he could have seen its full implications.

  How could he unite himself and his son? He certainly could not bring George to Russia, not without exposure. George would not be able to withstand the onslaught of interrogation that would come his way. As far as he knew, George may well have discovered that the Aunt Loti that Maudlin had invented was his mother; and then his agent Mother would be discredited, along with himself. Defection was never a course that would cross the mind of a man so self-absorbed and conceited in pride. That, to him, would mean admitting failure, and no amount of money stashed away could make up for failure. No, there was more to do in his motherland than risking everything for his own survival. There was more work to do in defeating communism. As a consequence of this forthcoming defeat, Paulo could make whatever he had in Switzerland ten times over. He decided that he would use that bank account to make his wishes come true.

  By the late eighties and into the nineties, 'Glasnost' and 'Perestroika' were the words in vogue, and Paulo followed his friend with the port-stain birthmark closely behind the banner that he carried. The trader in Paulo had no wish to be too close to either side in what he could see as the oncoming confrontation. He knew it was coming, because he was going to arrange it. He met with a worried General, always preferring single numbers to consort with, when he was considering the craft of conspiracy.

  “Comrade General, the Berlin Wall has come down, but the barriers are going up. The economy has become stagnated, and all we hear from the Union of the Soviet States is give us freedom, give us self-determination. It will happen, and soon, Comrade. Can you imagine what will become of the military, the cutbacks, because we won't be able to afford to maintain what we have now? Can you imagine the unrest throughout the Union, when all the technicalities are being considered and the rebels want more than we can possibly give? Could it ever be right that this nation of ours, with the most mineral and energy deposits in the world, gives them up to help create democracies on our borders? We have, Comrade, a quarter of the world's fresh water in our Mother Russia. Should we give murdering greedy thugs access to this, in this federation of ours? We know the Americans and their allies in the West…we know them well. Do we want adversaries on our borders? Have you not heard the war drums in Chechnya, the rumblings in Poland to join NATO? I would urge you greatly to consider your support for all this radicalisation. I cannot support you openly, but…well, given the right circumstances…I could support you financially, if the two of us could think of a way that does not compromise me.”

  A few weeks later, when Paulo had laced the Generals', and several other General's previously unknown or unused private bank accounts, he approached his banner-carrying friend and sympathetic fellow Politburo members with the story of an impending military coup. Again, Paulo was the hero; irreproachable, proving his innocence through beating off accusations by a plotting General who had no evidence of Paulo's involvement. The money, hidden so well by the conspirators that only someone as bright as Paulo could find, was traced to a dead criminal figure with known connections to a newly discovered circle of such miscreants, with a structure that distinctly resembled the American Mafia.

  The banner of privatisation, along with trade and market liberalisation, was soon taken up by another recipient of Paulo's generosity.

  His largesse not only went directly into this man's pocket, but also helped persuade the fortunate plebiscite to cast their votes in his direction in the first ever election held behind the, now fully open, Iron Curtain. The first tentative steps towards complete capitalism were heavy footed ones, taken by the new standard bearer often more consumed by alcohol and other drugs, than forward thoughts along economical lines. Vast sums of cash were taken from a declining Russian economy by those with connections with government officials to further individual ambitions. Stepping ever forward in their wake was a never-hesitant Paulo, reaping the harvest that he had sown. Who else was better placed? Not only firmly cemented in g
overnment, but also having friends within the newly discovered Mafioso circle who had more attachments and interests elsewhere, some of which Paulo could facilitate?

  * * *

  “What are you doing, Harry Paterson…what is it you want?” Paulo asked himself.

  * * *

  When the mighty Soviet Army left war-torn Afghanistan, it did not relinquish all of its interests there. It left behind many communist sympathisers and others who were forced to follow the creed. One such unfortunate, Mullah Wardak, was of the latter variety. His mother, father, brothers and sisters had been taken from their home by the withdrawing forces and were promised safe return, one by one, in exchange for information Mullah would supply to the departed Russian authorities. He had seven brothers and four sisters, and six of his siblings had been released by the time Harry Paterson saw his first tour of duty in that country in 2002.

  It was winter in Afghanistan when Harry had arrived from the rain-sodden barracks at Aldershot, his right knee already swollen and stiff. The cold of Kandahar did not help to alleviate the discomfort that caused his pronounced limp. For the first few days in the Mess, his fellow officers would bow sarcastically on his entrance and announce his appearance with a cacophony of simulated triumphant salute. He tried to protest against the deafening sounds of mouthed trumpets and beating cutlery.

  “I'm only an Honourable! Not Lord Paterson, until my father dies,” he proclaimed.

  Mullah was employed in the kitchens, clearing away the garbage or washing dishes, far from any sensitive duties. However, he managed to hear the greetings, and put a face to the name. His report and description landed on the by then Colonel General Vladimir Sokolov's desk, along with his second report, three months later, on the same man. Only this time, Mullah said, the limp had disappeared.

  Vladimir, as head of the newly structured FSB, or Federal Security Service, was not that interested in would-be English Lords. It was worth noting, but little else. Certainly not worth the release of any Wardaks, he arrogantly stated to his friend Paulo Korovin.

  * * *

  “You've put on weight, Harry. If it hadn't been raining, I would never had known.” Paulo blessed arthritis and the rain soaked hamlet of Grönwohld.

  “Has George given you my secrets, or has he found out about your great-grandfather being his grandfather? Is that why you want to meet me? You must be a very clever man, Harry, to have come this far in discovering me. Did you leave the army and grow fat on a master spy's salary…do the others know of me, too? I shall have to research you thoroughly, find out more, before I agree to your request.” Unnerved Paulo told himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Bending Branches

  Colonel General Vladimir Sokolov's renowned belief in self-preservation had saved him from Paulo's driven purge, which amongst other things had brought the toppling of the last Head of the now-defunct KGB, who had been implicated in the failed attempt to change the constitution of the government. His promotion and subsequent escalation from his cheerless, bleak office were due entirely to that basic instinct honed over countless years of sitting back and watching his subordinates do the hard graft, whilst taking the glory bestowed on him.

  He also excelled at spotting an opportunity whenever he saw one, and head of the fledgling FSB was one he could not resist. The advancing capitalist approach to the outside world, teamed with the escalating corruption within Russia, could result in an untouchable organisation more powerful than anything before if handled in the right way. With the right men behind him he could be as powerful as any one sitting on the highest throne in the Kremlin, which could, in time, even be him! Another contender for that seat was beside him now: the sole presider over the transfer of the enormous scattered and divided Soviet assets in the former federation, back into the hands of Russia alone. A favourable time for both of them, but only one would be the President, and Vladimir had it fixed in his indistinct sights.

  Paulo genuinely liked the man who sat beside him. He admired his introspectiveness and how that had helped to survive the conflicts and competitiveness that had surrounded him throughout his career. That was why he had suggested him.

  'Some plants have to be supported, Paulo, otherwise the wind rocks them and the roots are disturbed. Then the growth will be stunted, or their fleshy stems break and the flowers are lost. Others bend in that wind, accepting the squalls, whilst gracefully arching their backs, dancing like ballerinas on a stage. Not fighting against nature by rigid resistance, but growing stronger against each blow. Every plant of substance will need support at the beginning; leave it there until it has the strength to stand on its own. Even Nureyev fell, occasionally.

  Yuri would have made a good teacher of garden husbandry or, if he had wanted, the understanding of the human psyche had he transposed his insights into that field, instead of sharing them only with Paulo.

  Quiet introspection can be extremely valuable. It allows the examination of your own strengths and weaknesses, as Vladimir would gladly testify to, having practised the process for many a long year. However, as he was the subject of his own analysis, whilst dreaming of the forthcoming days of power and influence, it would take someone else to show him that his strength could also be his weakness. As someone, somewhere, once said: A man who looks too intently into the fog should be careful not to trip on the stone directly in front of his feet.

  His strength lay in his pliability. His willingness to go where others lead, never seeking the mantle of a celebrity, preferring relative obscurity to one of fame. His life had been spent in obsequious inferiority to those above. But now there was no one to placate, no one to make those decisions that he could concur with. He would have to make them himself. That was his weakness, never having had to make those hard choices; the one that Paulo had identified.

  * * *

  “We can find no evidence to incriminate Comrade Korovin sir. He has travelled many times to various hotels in Berlin, both before the Wall came down and since. He has reported these occasions as contacts to the source that he has reported to us, an Englishman, who we ourselves have checked and attempted to use. He met his daughter there after she was taken on by CNN. All have been checked against corresponding files, and all are genuine sources that Korovin has registered. The one thing of contention that we found was his meeting with General Gromov who was subsequently found guilty of organising the coup in 1991 but, as we explained to Colonel General Vladimir Sokolov at the inauguration of the FSB, he answered that at the hearing, explaining it was his attempt at stopping it before it occurred. There is a curious fact that has been troubling me for some time, however, and I would appreciate your opinion and instructions.”

  Alexi went on to tell his new boss Valentin Antopolov of his delving into what he described as the myth…or called, by others, the legend of Paulo Sergeyovitch Korovin.

  It had taken almost twenty years before a decision was reached on what Sokolov initiated with his then two subordinates, all based on what Alexi Vasilyev said that day about one man's foolishness, and another man's sense.

  * * *

  On a distinctly hot and humid June day, Jack Simmons gave a speech to a gathering of equally ambitiously minded captains of industry at the Institute of Directors in London's Pall Mall. The summer that year had started with a bang after a conspicuously uninteresting spring, the south-east of England had been bathed in clear skies and temperatures in the high eighties for the last ten days or so. Jack's never ending summers had been seamless, with his particular branch of industry never experiencing the variances of climate or change. Telecommunications had been added to his company's name, as he told his audience how his innovative business brain had developed new strategies and products to complement his established all-seeing cameras. He closed his address with a short summary.

  “In my line, as in all of yours, it's vital to stay one step ahead of the competitors. With us, we originated a directional hearing device to attach to a camera, one that can be operated on its own if more covertnes
s is required. In the beginning we were able to offer our clients minute coverage of all ground activities covered by their satellites. Now, not only do we supply many countries with pinpoint accurate surveying using GPS technology, but the ability to intercept both terrestrial and cellular conversations. It gives us that all-important edge in foreign markets, in which it gives me great pleasure to say we dominate. British innovations are exported worldwide, gentlemen, closing that never to be forgotten trade deficit.”

  He chose not to add, at that moment, his connection to a powerful influential figure, holding his hand and lighting the path for him. He did that later.

  “Hi Jack, I'm Geoffrey Rowell. I run Refining Derivatives Ltd, a petrochemical company based in Surrey. I was very interested in your presentation. I'm trying to accelerate my company into those foreign markets you mentioned and I wondered if, over a drink, you might give me a few tips. I'm at the Sofitel Hotel, it's just across the road. Can I buy you one?”

  Jack had no pressing engagements, no clock regulated his life, and he was sorry to say there was no wife at home to worry about where he was. The divorce had been made absolute about four years after meeting Yuri on that trade delegation to Moscow. They had lived apart for two years and Dotty, his pet name for Daphne, had sued on those grounds. But that was not the reason. At first, Dotty admired Jack's enterprise and dynamism, the zest for life he had, in driving his organisation forward into those new markets abroad with more exotic names than Basildon where they lived. The move to Hadley Wood and the six-bedroomed detached house showed the world in particular, the clique in which she moved, who valued the friendship of those who could afford the price of everything just how much his tireless efforts were worth.