“Colonel, could you tell the court when you first became aware of the defendant?”
“Yes, comrade prosecutor. He came to Moscow some five years ago as the British representative at an international book conference and gave the keynote speech on the opening day.”
“Did you hear that speech?”
“Yes I did, and it became clear to me that he believed the traitor Babakov had worked for many years inside the Kremlin and was a close associate of the late Comrade Stalin. In fact, so persuasive was his argument that by the time he sat down almost everyone else in that hall also believed it.”
“Did you attempt to make contact with the defendant while he was in Moscow?”
“No, because he was traveling back to England the following day, and I confess I assumed that, like so many campaigns the West gets worked up about, it would only be a matter of time before another one came along to occupy their impatient minds.”
“But this particular cause didn’t go away.”
“No, the defendant had clearly convinced himself that Babakov was telling the truth, and that if his book could be published the whole world would also believe him. Earlier this year, the defendant traveled to the United States on a luxury liner, owned by his wife’s family. On arrival in New York, he visited a well-known publisher, no doubt to discuss the publication of Babakov’s book, because the following day he boarded a train to Pittsburgh with the sole purpose of meeting the defector Yelena Babakov, the wife of the traitor. I have in this folder several photographs taken during this visit to Pittsburgh by one of our agents.”
Marinkin handed the folder to the judge’s clerk, who passed it to the tribunal chairman. The three judges studied the photographs for some time before the chairman asked, “How much time did the prisoner spend with Mrs. Babakov?”
“Just over four hours. He then returned to New York. The following morning he visited his publisher once again, and later that day boarded the ship owned by his wife’s family and traveled back to England.”
“Once he had returned, did you continue to maintain a high level of surveillance?”
“Yes. One of our senior operatives monitored his daily activities and reported that the defendant had enrolled for a Russian language course at Bristol University, not far from where he lives. One of my agents signed up for the same course and reported that the accused was a conscientious student, who studied far harder than any of his classmates. Shortly after he’d completed the course, he flew to Leningrad, just weeks before his visa expired.”
“Why didn’t you arrest him immediately he arrived in Leningrad and put him on the next plane back to London?”
“Because I wanted to discover if he had any associates in Russia.”
“And did he?”
“No, the man’s a loner, a romantic, someone who would have been more at home in ancient times when, like Jason, he would have gone in search of the Golden Fleece, which, for him in the twentieth century, was Babakov’s equally fictitious story.”
“And was he successful?”
“Yes, he was. Babakov’s wife had evidently told him exactly where he could find a copy of her husband’s book, because no sooner had he arrived in Leningrad than he took a taxi to the Pushkin antiquarian bookshop on the outskirts of the city. It took him only a few minutes to locate the book he was looking for, which was concealed inside the dust jacket of another title, and must have been exactly where Mrs. Babakov had told him it would be. He paid for the book and two others, then instructed the waiting taxi to take him back to the airport.”
“Where you arrested him?”
“Yes, but not immediately, because I wanted to see if he had an accomplice at the airport he would try to pass the book on to. But he simply bought a ticket for the same plane he had flown in on. We arrested him just before he attempted to board it.”
“Where is the book now?” asked the president of the tribunal.
“It has been destroyed, comrade chairman, but I have retained the title page for the records. It may interest the court to know that it appears to have been a printer’s proof, so it was possibly the last copy in existence.”
“When you arrested the defendant, how did he react?” asked the prosecutor.
“He clearly didn’t realize the severity of his crime because he kept asking on what charge he was being held.”
“Did you interview the taxi driver?” asked the prosecutor, “and the elderly woman who worked in the bookshop, to see if they were in league with the defendant?”
“Yes, I did. Both turned out to be card-carrying members of the party, and it quickly became clear they had no earlier association with the defendant. I released them after a short interview, as I felt the less they knew about my inquiries the better.”
“Thank you, colonel. I have no more questions,” said the prosecutor, “but my colleague may have,” he added before he sat down.
The chairman glanced in the direction of the young man who was seated at the other end of the bench. He rose and looked at the senior judge, but said nothing.
“Do you wish to cross-examine this witness?” she asked.
“That won’t be necessary, comrade chairman. I am quite content with the evidence presented by the chief of police.” He sat back down.
The chairman turned her attention back to the colonel.
“I congratulate you, comrade colonel, on a thoroughly comprehensive piece of detective work,” she said. “But is there anything you would like to add that might assist us to make our judgement?”
“Yes, comrade. I am convinced that the prisoner is merely a naïve and gullible idealist, who believes that Babakov actually worked in the Kremlin. In my opinion he should be given one more chance to sign a confession. If he does so, I will personally supervise his deportation.”
“Thank you, colonel, I will bear that in mind. Now you may return to your important duties.”
The colonel saluted. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced briefly at Harry. A moment later he was gone.
That was the moment Harry realized that this was a show trial with a difference. Its sole purpose was to convince him that Anatoly Babakov was a fraud, so that he would return to England and tell everyone the truth, as it was being played out in that courtroom. But the carefully orchestrated charade still required him to sign a confession, and he wondered just how far they would go to achieve their aim.
“Comrade prosecutor,” said the tribunal chairman, “you may now call your next witness.”
“Thank you, comrade chair,” he said, before rising once again. “I call Anatoly Babakov.”
40
GILES SAT DOWN to breakfast and began to go through the morning papers. He was on his second cup of coffee by the time Sebastian joined him.
“How do they read?”
“I think a theatre critic would describe the opening day as having mixed reviews.”
“Then perhaps it’s a good thing,” said Seb, “that the judge instructed the jury not to read them.”
“They’ll read them, believe me,” said Giles. “Especially after the judge refused to let Trelford tell them what my mother had to say about Virginia in her will. Pour yourself a coffee and I’ll read it to you.” Giles picked up the Daily Mail and waited for Seb to return to the breakfast table before he put his glasses back on and began to read. “‘The remainder of my estate is to be left to my beloved daughters Emma and Grace to dispose of as they see fit, with the exception of my Siamese cat, Cleopatra, who I leave to Lady Virginia Fenwick, because they have so much in common. They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them, including my besotted son, who I can only pray will break from the spell she has cast on him before it is too late.’”
“Bravo,” said Seb when his uncle had put the paper down. “What a formidable lady. We could have done with her in the witness box. But what about the broadsheets, how are they reporting it?”
&
nbsp; “The Telegraph is hedging its bets, although it does praise Makepeace for his forensic and analytical cross-examination of Emma. The Times speculates about why the defense rather than the prosecution is calling Fisher. You’ll see it under the headline ‘Hostile Witness,’” said Giles, sliding the Times across the table.
“I have a feeling Fisher won’t get mixed reviews.”
“Just be sure to keep staring at him while he’s in the witness box. He won’t like that.”
“Funnily enough,” said Seb, “one female member of the jury keeps staring at me.”
“That’s good,” said Giles. “Be sure to smile at her occasionally, but not too often in case the judge notices,” he added as Emma walked into the room.
“How are they?” she asked, looking down at the papers.
“About as good as we could have expected,” said Giles. “The Mail has turned Mother’s will into folklore, and the serious journalists want to know why Fisher is being called by us and not them.”
“They’ll find out soon enough,” said Emma, taking a seat at the table. “So which one should I start with?”
“Perhaps the Times,” said Giles, “but don’t bother with the Telegraph.”
“Not for the first time,” said Emma, picking up the Telegraph, “I wish I could read tomorrow’s papers today.”
* * *
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Justice Lane once the jury had settled. “Proceedings will begin today with a rather unusual occurrence. Mr. Trelford’s next witness, Major Alexander Fisher MP, is not giving evidence by choice, but has been subpoenaed by the defense. When Mr. Trelford applied for a subpoena, I had to decide if his evidence was admissible. On balance, I concluded that Mr. Trelford did have the right to call Major Fisher, as his name is mentioned during the exchange between Mrs. Clifton and Lady Virginia that is at the core of this case, and he may therefore be able to throw some light on the situation. You must not, however,” she emphasized, “read anything into the fact that Major Fisher wasn’t included on Sir Edward Makepeace’s list of witnesses.”
“But they will,” whispered Giles to Emma.
The judge looked down at the clerk of the court. “Has Major Fisher arrived?”
“He has, my lady.”
“Then please call him.”
“Call Major Alexander Fisher MP,” bellowed the clerk.
The double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open and in marched Fisher, with a swagger that took even Giles by surprise. Clearly becoming a Member of Parliament had only added to his considerable self-esteem.
He took the Bible in his right hand and delivered the oath, without once looking at the card the clerk held up for him. When Mr. Trelford rose from his place, Fisher stared at him as if he had the enemy in his sights.
“Good morning, Major Fisher,” said Trelford, but received no response. “Would you be kind enough to state your name and occupation for the court records?”
“My name is Major Alexander Fisher, and I am the Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands,” he said, looking directly at Giles.
“At the time of Barrington Shipping’s annual general meeting that is the subject of this libel, were you a director of the company?”
“I was.”
“And was it Mrs. Clifton who invited you to sit on the board?”
“No, it was not.”
“So who was it who asked you to represent them as a director?”
“Lady Virginia Fenwick.”
“And why, may I ask? Were you friends, or was it simply a professional relationship?”
“I would like to think both,” said Fisher, glancing down at Lady Virginia, who nodded and smiled.
“And what particular expertise did you have to offer Lady Virginia?”
“I was a stockbroker by profession before I became an MP.”
“I see,” said Trelford. “So you were able to offer advice to Lady Virginia on her share portfolio, and because of your wise counsel, she invited you to represent her on the board of Barrington’s.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Mr. Trelford,” said Fisher, a smug smile appearing on his face.
“But are you sure that was the only reason Lady Virginia selected you, major?”
“Yes, I am sure,” barked Fisher, the smile disappearing.
“I’m just a little puzzled, major, how a stockbroker based in Bristol becomes a professional advisor to a lady living in London, who must have access to any number of leading stockbrokers in the City. So perhaps I should ask how you first met.”
“Lady Virginia supported me when I first stood for Parliament as the Conservative candidate for Bristol Docklands.”
“And who was the Labour candidate at that election?”
“Sir Giles Barrington.”
“Lady Virginia’s ex-husband and Mrs. Clifton’s brother?”
“Yes.”
“So now we know why Lady Virginia chose you as her representative on the board.”
“What are you suggesting?” snapped Fisher.
“Quite simply, that if you had stood for Parliament in any other constituency, you would never have come across Lady Virginia.” Mr. Trelford looked at the jury while he waited for Fisher’s reply, because he was confident none would be forthcoming. “Now that we have established your relationship with the plaintiff, let us consider the value and importance of your professional advice. You will recall, major, that I earlier asked you if you advised Lady Virginia on her share portfolio, and you confirmed that you did.”
“That is correct.”
“Then perhaps you can tell the jury which shares, other than Barrington Shipping, you advised her ladyship on?” Again, Mr. Trelford waited patiently, before he spoke again. “I suspect the answer is none, and that her only interest in you was as an insider, to let her know what was going on at Barrington’s, so both of you could take advantage of any information to which you were privy as a board member.”
“That is an outrageous suggestion,” said Fisher, looking up at the judge. But she remained impassive.
“If that is the case, major, could you deny that on three separate occasions you advised Lady Virginia to sell her shares in Barrington’s—I have the dates, the times, and the amounts in front of me—and on each occasion, just a couple of days later the company announced some bad news.”
“That is what advisors are for, Mr. Trelford.”
“And then some three weeks after that you bought the shares back, which I would suggest was for two reasons. First, to make a quick profit, and second, to be sure that she retained her seven and a half percent of the company’s stock so you didn’t lose your place on the board. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been privy to any more inside information, would you?”
“That is a disgraceful slur on my professional reputation,” barked Fisher.
“Is it?” said Trelford, holding up a sheet of paper for everyone to see, before reading out the figures in front of him. “On the three transactions in question, Lady Virginia made profits of £17,400, £29,320, and £70,100 respectively.”
“It’s not a crime to make a profit for one’s client, Mr. Trelford.”
“No, it most certainly is not, major, but why did you need to use a broker in Hong Kong to carry out these transactions, a Mr. Benny Driscoll?”
“Benny is an old friend who used to work in the city, and I am loyal to my friends, Mr. Trelford.”
“I’m sure you are, major, but were you aware that at the time of your dealings, the Irish Garda had a warrant out for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest for fraud and share manipulation?”
Sir Edward was quickly on his feet.
“Yes, yes, Sir Edward,” said Mrs. Justice Lane. “I do hope, Mr. Trelford, you are not suggesting that Major Fisher was aware of this warrant but was still willing to do business with Mr. Driscoll?”
“That would have been my next question, my lady,” said Trelford, the innocent schoolboy look returning.
“No, I did not know,” pro
tested Fisher, “and had I done so, I certainly wouldn’t have continued to deal with him.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Trelford. He opened a large black file in front of him and took out a single sheet of paper, covered in figures. “When you purchased shares on behalf of Lady Virginia, how were you paid?”
“On commission. One percent of the buying or selling price, which is standard practice.”
“Very right and proper,” said Trelford, making a show of putting the sheet of paper back in his file. He then extracted a second sheet, which he studied with equal interest. “Tell me, major, were you aware that on each occasion after you had asked your loyal friend, Mr. Driscoll, to carry out these transactions for Lady Virginia, he also bought and sold shares in Barrington’s on his own behalf, which he must have known was illegal.”
“I had no idea he was doing that, and I would have reported him to the Stock Exchange had I been aware of it.”
“Would you indeed? So you had no idea that he made several thousand pounds piggybacking your transactions?”
“No, I did not.”
“And that he has recently been suspended by the Hong Kong Exchange for unprofessional conduct?”
“I was not aware of that, but then I haven’t dealt with him for several years.”
“Haven’t you?” said Trelford, returning the second sheet to his file and taking out a third. He adjusted his glasses and studied a row of figures on the page in front of him before saying, “Did you also, on three separate occasions, buy and sell shares for yourself, making a handsome profit each time?”
Trelford continued to stare at the sheet of paper he held in his hand, painfully aware that all Fisher had to say was “I did not,” and his bluff would have been called. However, the major hesitated, just for a moment, which allowed Trelford to add during the brief silence, “I don’t have to remind you, Major Fisher, as a Member of Parliament, that you are under oath, and of the consequences of committing perjury.” Trelford continued to study the row of figures in front of him.
“But I didn’t make a profit on the third transaction,” Fisher blurted out. “In fact, I made a loss.”
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