by Peter Murphy
‘Before he comes,’ Baxter continued. ‘I want to acquaint you with the ground rules under which the evidence is being provided. The circumstances may be less than ideal from a lawyer’s point of view; I do understand that. But, as I tried to explain on Friday evening, there are issues of security and personal safety involved. I believe that will be abundantly clear to you by this evening. As a consequence, my hands are tied. I hope you will feel able to accept the rules. In any case, please don’t blame me. I assure you that there is nothing I can do about it.’
He had left a brown, soft leather briefcase on top of the sideboard. He stood, walked over to retrieve it, and extracted two forms, which he pushed across the table.
‘Please read these and sign,’ he said. ‘You are promising that you will reveal nothing of this weekend’s activities, including the evidence which will be presented to you later, except to your clients and the other lawyers involved in the case. They will be asked to sign a similar form before the evidence is disclosed to them. I am sure I do not need to emphasise the possible consequences of failing to comply with the obligation you are undertaking by signing.’
Ginny signed almost at once. Ben read through the document slowly and scribbled a signature with a show of reluctance.
‘You might at least tell us where we are,’ he said.
‘I think you know you are in The Hague,’ Baxter pointed out. ‘The house we are in is a safe house operated by our Dutch sister service, which has placed it at our disposal for the weekend. I am afraid we will not be able to leave the house until it is time to return to Hoek van Holland for our ferry home tomorrow. That’s a Dutch guideline, as well as one of ours, and, believe me, Mevrouw van Harten is more than capable of enforcing it.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ Ginny smiled.
Baxter returned the smile. ‘We will have dinner here this evening, with a bottle or two of wine, after the meeting, and tomorrow you will be safely back home. It’s not the kind of weather you would want to venture out in, anyway; quite cold and miserable, very Dutch.’
He took possession of the forms they had signed and returned them to his briefcase.
‘The guidelines are quite simple, really,’ he continued. ‘First, our guest will give you an account of certain events. When he has finished, you will be free to ask questions, but there will be a slight delay before he replies in case there is anything I have to censor. No documents will be provided, and no notes will be taken, or recordings made, during the meeting.’ He smiled. ‘Except, naturally, for whatever recording Mevrouw van Harten is making for her superiors, something we have tried to discourage, but over which we ultimately have no control.’
‘No notes?’ Ben asked. ‘I understand that there may be things you don’t want to put in an official document, but if we can’t take notes there may be things we miss. If we can’t give our clients and colleagues the full picture, the evidence may not have the desired effect.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Schroeder,’ Baxter replied. ‘The story you are going to hear is not particularly complicated, and I have a feeling that you are going to remember almost every word he says, without any trouble at all.’
* * *
They had all returned and were seated around the solid table at a few minutes before 4 o’clock, Baxter at the side nearer to the door, Ben and Ginny facing him on the far side. A jug of water and four glasses stood on the table, and two large glass ashtrays had been put in place. A packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a box of matches lay on the table in front of the fourth chair, to Baxter’s right and directly across from Ginny. They sat and waited, tense and silent. At almost exactly 4 o’clock they heard the front door bell ring. They heard Paula van Harten walk swiftly to open the door; they heard a male voice, and a brief conversation in English, during which she was taking his coat and asking him to put his umbrella in the large plant pot by the side of the door. Paula knocked on the door and ushered the man inside. All three stood.
The man appeared to be about fifty. He was not tall, and he was carrying a little too much weight, but he moved easily enough. His face was rugged and he sported a short silver moustache and beard, which matched his thinning hair. His eyes were grey, but not at all unfriendly. He wore a brown pilot’s leather jacket and beige trousers. He had a large shoulder bag, which he placed on the floor next to Baxter’s briefcase.
‘Kurt, come in, please,’ Baxter said, as Paula left the room, closing the door unobtrusively behind her. ‘I am Baxter. You remember me, of course; we have met before.’
‘Yes,’ Kurt replied, shaking Baxter’s hand.
‘And may I introduce Miss Virginia Castle and Mr Ben Schroeder, two of the lawyers in the case our Dutch colleagues have briefed you about. Miss Castle, Mr Schroeder, this is Kurt Weber.’
They shook hands. Ben and Ginny resumed their seats. Baxter asked Weber to sit in the seat to his right. Then he walked to the sideboard and turned to them all with a relaxed smile.
‘Now, before we get down to business,’ he said, ‘may I offer anyone some refreshment?’
He picked up a tall thin, bottle, one of two standing on the sideboard. Next to the bottles were two plates, one with slices of a rough, black bread, the other a plate of what Ben thought must be caviar. He had noticed it when he entered the room.
‘If this place was one of ours,’ Baxter said, ‘we would have some proper gin and tonic, with ice; perhaps some vodka, or even a decent scotch. But as we are guests of the Dutch, we have jenever. It’s a kind of gin, I believe, and you can have it either jong or oud, young or old. The aficionados swear by one or the other, but personally I’ve never been able to tell the difference. It’s something of an acquired taste, but not bad once you get used to it. What would you like?’
‘Jong,’ Weber replied. Baxter filled a small glass and handed it to him, then poured the same for himself. He brought the bottle and two more glasses to the table and took his seat.
Ginny was looking intently at Weber. She shook her head.
‘This is not a social occasion, Mr Baxter,’ Ben said. ‘We are here to work.’
Baxter smiled again. ‘I am very conscious of that, Mr Schroeder. As you wish. It’s just that, in a minute or less from now, you may need a drink.’
He turned to Weber. ‘The floor is yours, Kurt. You may begin.’
Weber turned towards Baxter.
‘The rules that were agreed …?’
‘Are in effect, yes,’ Baxter confirmed.
Weber nodded.
‘Thank you.’ He coughed, then drank the contents of his glass. Baxter refilled it instantly.
‘In that case, I should begin with a proper introduction. My name is not Kurt Weber. It is Viktor Stepanov.’
53
Ben found himself utterly speechless. Neither Baxter nor Stepanov broke the silence. Baxter seemed to be finding the scene slightly amusing.
‘We understood that you were dead,’ Ben said helplessly, after some time. As soon as he had said it, he realised how ridiculous it sounded.
Stepanov smiled. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘In the Soviet Union, it is often advisable to be dead. In some cases it is the only way of staying alive.’
‘The face,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘I recognise you from the photograph in your obituary.’
‘Then you are a most perceptive woman,’ Stepanov said, smiling again. ‘That picture was taken when I was somewhat younger, and before I adopted this disguise.’ He fingered his beard.
Ben was leaning forward on the table, both hands over his mouth, trying to recover his composure. Baxter had picked up the bottle and was holding it up invitingly. Ben picked up one of the empty glasses and nodded. Ginny also nodded, and Baxter filled both glasses. He poured water for everyone from the jug.
‘I will return to Kurt Weber later,’ Stepanov said. ‘I should start at the beginning. I was born in Leningrad in 19
14. My father loved chess, but we were a poor family, and he grew up before the Revolution, so he had no opportunity to play seriously. But when it became clear that I had some talent he encouraged me to play in local tournaments, and at the age of sixteen I was sent to Moscow to a special school where chess was part of the curriculum. I developed quickly, and started to play in tournaments both at home and abroad. The authorities gave me permission to travel, because of my abilities, and eventually I attained the rank of grandmaster.’
He paused for a drink, jenever first, then water.
‘After I had played in a number of tournaments abroad, it became clear that I was not in the first rank of grandmasters. I was good, but in the Soviet Union, good is commonplace. I was not to be one of those who would take the world by storm, and that was what they were looking for: players who would take the world by storm, players like Mikhail Botvinnik and Vasily Smyslov, who would show the world how superior Soviet society was, compared to the degenerate capitalist West with its degenerate, bourgeois approach to chess. Others were coming up through the ranks who were stronger players; who would be, therefore, more useful than I would.’
Baxter was listening carefully, refilling glasses as needed. Ben was now feeling a little more composed. Ginny seemed totally absorbed. She had hardly taken her eyes off Stepanov.
‘But fortunately for me,’ he continued, ‘I had another talent which was developed in the school in Moscow. I was a good linguist. I was asked to specialise in German and English, which were considered to be the most important languages from the point of view of the Soviet State. Later, Chinese became important also, but at that time, German and English. It was not long before I came to the notice of the Government. When Hitler invaded our country I was seconded to a department in Moscow to translate captured German documents and to try to decipher German military codes. After the War, I accompanied the Soviet legal team to Nuremberg as a translator and interpreter. It was there that I first met James Digby. He was working in a similar capacity for the British team. We spoke a few times. His name was vaguely familiar. In those days we did not receive very much information about what was going on in British chess, but the name registered with me. We got on well but, as I say, we had little opportunity to talk. The Soviet team kept itself to itself at that time. We attended receptions, but too much fraternisation was discouraged.’
* * *
‘After Nuremberg I was not sure whether the authorities would permit me to travel very much. But once again, my command of languages proved useful. The Soviet Chess Federation had endless arguments with FIDE – the International Chess Federation. In particular, a serious dispute developed about arrangements for the tournament to decide the world chess championship in 1948. The world champion, Alexander Alekhin, died in 1946, and the title was vacant just after the war. It had been proposed to hold a tournament in which a number of the strongest players in the world would compete for the title as soon as arrangements could be made. Unfortunately, the Soviet Chess Federation took a very strong position, assuming that it could dictate the terms. They tried to dictate to the world who should be invited to compete, and where the tournament should be held. Although FIDE represented the entire chess community worldwide, the Soviets refused to agree to their proposals. They justified this by drawing attention to the Soviet dominance in world chess, which had to be conceded. All the same,’ he shrugged and smiled, ‘the way in which the negotiations were being conducted on our side did us little credit.’
Baxter had walked to the sideboard and carried over the bread and caviar, which he placed on the table, with four small plates. Stepanov paused to help himself to some of each, and washed it down with a mouthful of jenever. For the first time, he took a cigarette from the packet in front of him and lit it. Belatedly, he thought to pick the packet up and offer it around, but he was the only smoker in the room.
‘Our Government, of course, wanted the tournament to go ahead, so they asked me to step in and take over the negotiations before the Soviet Federation torpedoed the proposal for the tournament altogether. The situation cried out for some basic diplomacy, and as I spoke languages other than Russian, this helped a great deal to smooth things over. Everyone became a little more relaxed and, in due course, we reached an agreement. I need not go through the whole thing. Suffice it to say that it was agreed to start the tournament off here in The Hague, and move to Moscow for the second half. The Government seemed pleased with my work, and invited me to attend the tournament in The Hague. I was to be based in the Soviet Embassy, for reasons which were not at all clear – until just before I was due to leave Moscow.’
He paused for a drink of water.
‘Two days before my departure I was summoned to attend the office of the head of one the Directorates of Moscow Centre,’ he said.
‘The Soviet Foreign Intelligence Service,’ Baxter interjected.
‘Yes. The Comrade Director said that my work as an interpreter and negotiator had come to his attention, and that there was a role I could play which would be of the greatest service to the Soviet people in the struggle against the West and the capitalist system. He asked whether I was prepared to accept this role.’ He smiled. ‘In the Soviet Union, when the head of a Directorate of Moscow Centre makes such an invitation, the correct answer is “yes”.’
Ben and Ginny instinctively smiled with him.
‘The Comrade Director explained to me that agents working under his command had cultivated a number of high-ranking western diplomats and intelligence officials both in London and Washington, who had been Soviet agents for some years, and had finally attained positions of some power. These persons now had access to information of the highest quality, information vital to the Soviet High Command, and also to those State agencies responsible for protecting the Soviet people against sabotage and infiltration by counter-revolutionary elements at home. It was necessary to find a means of conveying this information to the Directorate, and also of conveying information from the Directorate to the contacts in London and Washington. Moscow Centre regarded it as essential that its contacts should not be compromised, and they wanted a method of communication which would not involve sending documents, film and the like, which are too easily discovered and are too easy to trace back to the source. A British agent known to the contacts had been identified, and I was to work with this agent in devising an appropriate system and putting it in place. I was instructed to approach him during the tournament and, if he was agreeable, to propose that we should work together once the tournament had moved to Moscow, where it was easier for the Directorate to arrange a secure meeting place.’
Stepanov paused again to drink jenever and water.
‘The Comrade Director did not tell me the identity of the British agent before my departure, but after I had arrived in the Netherlands, a top secret coded message was sent to the Embassy for my attention. The agent was named as Sir James Masefield Digby.’
54
Stepanov lit another cigarette.
‘Of course, the Directorate was aware that Digby and I had known each other in Nuremberg. On returning to the Soviet Union from Nuremberg, we were all required to submit a complete list of all foreigners we had spoken with during our time there. It was, of course, a long list. But nothing escapes the attention of the authorities, and for them it was a fortunate coincidence. I was asked to re-introduce myself to Digby, gain his trust, and then reveal myself as his contact, making sure first that he was indeed ready to work with us, looking for any signs that he might be a double agent. They are always suspicious of everyone. I was told that I would be free to take him to whatever location – bars, cafés, and so on – might be best suited to our conversations. I was told that the minders would leave us alone, and as far as I know they did, though you can never be sure of that. Digby was staying at the Hotel des Indes. I found him in the bar there one evening and we renewed our acquaintance.’
He paused.
He took a sip of jenever.
‘I must admit that I was nervous – after all, I was a linguist and a chess player, not a professional intelligence agent. But I should not have been concerned at all. Recruiting James was easy; there was no resistance at all. On the second occasion that we spoke, he asked if we might leave the hotel and walk. We walked for three or four hours – and it was a cold Netherlands night in March, believe me.’
He smiled.
‘But this did not deter him. We seemed to walk endlessly, randomly, around the city centre, in no particular direction, sometimes into areas where we were in danger of getting lost. He did not stop talking during the entire walk. I do not recall having any opportunity to ask a question. He talked very fast, obsessively, moving from one subject to another without warning, stopping in the middle of a story and returning to it ten minutes later, almost like – how you would say, the wave of …’
‘A stream of consciousness?’ Baxter suggested.