The Code

by Nick Elliott

  The next day I was moved into a dormitory with five other men. It was never explained to me why, but I was glad to be shot of Maksims.

  On the fifth day of my incarceration, I was taken to a room where a court-appointed defence lawyer presented himself. His English was somewhere between poor and incomprehensible. The embassy had been informed, he said, though he gave no indication as to if or when anyone might pay me a visit, despite my asking. He said the judge would be arriving shortly and he would wait with me until he arrived. He didn’t want to discuss my case until the judge was present, he said, which struck me as odd.

  The same judge I’d met in Riga reappeared and interviewed me. I told him the truth, in detail: my background, my occupation, the reason for my ship being in Riga. I told him that I had acted in self defence and that the man had lost his balance after I had struck him. I pointed out the injury to my hand and asked if the police had matched my blood to the knife my assailant had been carrying. And I asked him whether he was interviewing any of the numerous witnesses to the incident. Yes, he said, he had done these things.

  ‘When will my case come before the court?’ I asked.

  ‘In due course,’ he said.

  On day twelve, a consular officer, who introduced himself as Dominic Farrington from the British embassy, came to see me. He said I could expect a fair trial but not to expect any leniency.

  ‘Who is your next of kin?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have a next of kin,’ I answered, without going to the trouble of explaining that that person might or might not be a distant cousin, uncle or aunt who I’d never met. ‘Has my employer been informed – the shipowner?’

  ‘I believe so. But it’s a little complicated. I understand the physical owner of the ship is located in Piraeus, while the registered owner is in Cyprus. And the ship itself is registered in Panama. And you are a British citizen. So you can appreciate there is little we can do on that front.’

  ‘It’s the physical owner I’m talking about – in Greece. His name is Christos Mavritis and I’m sure he knows what has happened and will do all he can to get me out of here. Would you ask the Greek embassy to assist please?’

  ‘We have been in touch with our counterparts at the Greek embassy. They say they will be communicating with their colleagues in Athens on the matter. We’ll no doubt be hearing from them in due course.’

  ‘In due course!’ I exploded. ‘Is that something in your training manual under what to tell British citizens trapped in a shithole like this through no fault of their own? In due course?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout, Mr McKinnon. From what I know of your case, you became involved in a fracas which might well have been avoided by trying a little measured dialogue with the man you killed.’

  I stared at him. Then, rashly perhaps, told him to fuck off.

  As the days went by I spoke with other prisoners, some of whom were awaiting trial like myself. My mood would swing from one end of the spectrum to the other. At times I would feel quietly optimistic, trusting in the judicial process running its course to a fair conclusion, that being a verdict of innocence. At others, I would sink into black despair, convinced I’d be stuck in this stinking pit for years, or even, conceivably, face the death penalty.

  It was on one of my darker days following the consular officer’s visit that events took an unexpected turn. I was in the canteen for what passed as lunch – another bowl of tepid borscht with a lump of stale bread – when an elderly inmate sat down opposite me. I’d noticed him before; a gaunt man in his early sixties, I guessed. He had an intelligent face with large, watery eyes behind round-framed glasses. His skin was pallid and his wispy hair white. He smiled a listless smile and leaned across the table. ‘You had a visit from your embassy? You are British, yes?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, glad of someone to converse with in my own language.

  ‘I believe you are a seafarer. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. By now this was common knowledge in our part of the prison. He reached across the table to shake my hand.

  ‘I am Valdis,’ he said, ‘Valdis Ozols. I was sailor too – long time ago. I need your help, my friend.’

  Chapter 8

  Daugavpils, Latvia

  March 1999

  And so began a series of conversations, or monologues, often lasting hours at a time, with consequences I could never have foreseen. As the weeks went by my new friend revealed his life story and the dilemmas he now faced. But as my own trial loomed, with what looked more and more likely to be a long prison sentence, I was glad of the distraction his stories offered. We talked at meal times, in the prison laundry where, through his intervention, we were both assigned, and when any other opportunity presented itself. The more engrossed I became by this diversion, the less I obsessed about my own predicament, at least temporarily. I had tried several times to draw Valdis on why he was in gaol. What had he been convicted of, I asked but he was evasive, saying he would explain soon. The one thing he did reveal was that he had been working for British Intelligence for many years. It was enough to hold my attention.

  I’d been in White Swan for only five weeks when my case came up, though it had seemed a lifetime. I was summoned to a local court and the trial began. There were no witnesses called, no jury, no members of the public, no journalists and no representative from the embassy present. It lasted just over two hours. I was found guilty of manslaughter and, after another week, another eternity, was returned to the court to receive a sentence of nine years. I’d been expecting something like this by now, but that didn’t lessen the shock. I felt physically sick as, handcuffed, I was escorted from the court building. Trees lining the edge of a small park displayed their bright green spring foliage, and beyond them I caught a glimpse of people sitting on the grass enjoying themselves, before I was shoved back into the van and back to the joys of White Swan.

  The following day I was on laundry duty with Valdis. I told him my news. By this time, our friendship had evolved beyond just the casual companionship of two fellow inmates. Valdis’s own mood had lifted noticeably in response to my presence – two fellow seafarers with many stories to share with one another. And he sensed my own mood, which had now changed from despair to a growing sense of anger and self-righteousness.

  ‘Angus,’ he said that morning as we piled dirty bed linen and towels into the decrepit old machines, ‘you are upset.’

  ‘I’m okay, really.’ I took a deep breath. I was upset alright.

  ‘You are sweating. You are cracking your knuckles. You just kicked laundry basket. Now I’m afraid you punch me or one of the guards to release emotions. And your Scottish voice stronger now than before. Calm down and listen to me. Angus, you are spark that has, how to say, lighted again fire inside me. Now I must do same for you. Words are not enough, I know. We need action, but I remember what my old friend Archie told me. He would say: “Illegitimi non carborundum”. You know what it means?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  He laughed. ‘It is Latin. Roughly means don’t let bastards break you down! British army intelligence used during war, he told me. Remember if it helps. It still helps me, and of course no one understands meaning. But yes, we need action, a plan, my friend. But first I continue my story, because only then will you understand what we must do.’

  ‘Okay, but tell me first what you’re doing in here.’

  ‘Long story, I will tell you. I have been in here for eight months already. I am a prisoner of others inside this prison. All because of some very important information, some knowledge I have, but this will make no sense unless you hear my story from beginning.’

  It began with his abduction by Archie, the Englishman, on that stormy night in Beirut, thirty-seven years earlier.

  ‘I could not believe what was happening to me! I knew about Philby’s defection of course. As ship’s political officer I was closely involved in last-minute plans to get him out of Beirut and on his way to Moscow. I came ashore w
ith another crewman just as Philby arrived. It was a KGB plan but ever since I’d been assigned political officer position in Morflot, I was GRU man. Morflot was my employer but although Morflot reported to Ministry of Merchant Marine, it was also instrument of GRU when it came to intelligence matters. And we were in strong position to gather intelligence as our ships called at ports all over the world.

  ‘So imagine my surprise! “Call me Archie”, he would say after we had dropped formalities. Yes, we got on well. I knew now his name was Archie Anderson. He dropped alias when we were together during early days in Lebanon. But I understood risks I was taking, and that he was exposing me to. And when time came for the swap, that day at Crusader castle, I was frightened, I tell you. His plan was very risky. The swap worked, but once those GRU men had me then it was up to me to convince them that I had not been turned.

  ‘We travelled north to Damascus in car. That fool Rybakov said he was to have pleasure of interrogating me. It was just a threat. It wasn’t his job. He was a bully but he was not professional interrogator. Maybe it would have been better for me if he had done the questioning. A beating perhaps, a lot of shouting, yes, but Rybakov was not really interested in me. So I was driven to Aleppo and from there flown to Moscow.

  ‘That’s where the professionals were. They interrogated me for weeks in GRU headquarters on Prechistenka Street. At first they listen to my cover story, my legend as Archie called it, that the British tried to persuade me to spy for them as double agent but that I had refused. I told them that I had not been mistreated and in the end the British had accepted that my loyalty was with Soviet state. I told them I thought the British may have kidnapped me in Beirut just to swap me for British spy. I pretend not to know who, or much of anything, in case that make them suspicious. I was simple seaman. Only of course I was not simple seaman. I was political officer and double agent working for the British.’ He glanced at me with a small smile.

  ‘They tried hard to break me. In night they play loud music and switch light in cell on and off, on and off, over and over again. The questioning always be in middle of night. I was not allowed to sleep, and food was bad. Sometimes I would get nothing to eat for one or two days. Then something good would be brought to my cell, but just thrown off plate and onto floor. There was very small window high up on wall. That was only way I could tell whether it was night or day. I had no contact with anyone except the two interrogators. But sometimes, I would hear screams and moaning. And they were real screams. It terrified me. It still does.’

  He shuddered involuntarily, then continued: ‘They say it was alright to work for British, but I would still work for GRU, feeding lies back to London. They said I had been compromised, but they would forgive me and I could become redoubled agent for GRU – a triple. But seemed too good to be true. It would be like admitting being guilty, and even if I didn’t get bullet in back of head right then, I would always be under their control.

  ‘Archie said that nothing was expected until I was ready. “Go back to normal life,” he said. “When you are cleared, and you will be, rebuild your career with Morflot at sea, then come ashore and find work, but try stay in shipping business. That’s where your contacts will be. And only when you are ready will you make contact with us.” It might take years, but he knew I was loyal to spy for Britain, for West.’

  He talked about Cuba. ‘Of course, my interrogators in Moscow knew all about Cuba. It was on their files. Even Delfina! Imagine how I feel when they say her name to me. They said I could go back to Cuba and see her if I agree to this position they plan for me. I didn’t believe them. I did not trust them. But I knew, after what I saw in Cuba, that I had to play my part in preventing nuclear war, even if that meant betraying bastard Soviets. They were not my people. I am Latvian, not Soviet or Russian. And I tell you, after interrogation I was even more ready to work for British.’

  Valdis wanted to tell his story as it had happened, so as his life unfolded before me I still had no idea what he was doing in gaol. It was 1999. We were approaching the new Millennium. The Soviet Union had collapsed a decade earlier and Latvia, following their Singing Revolution, was now an independent state, its application to join the European Union almost a done deal. Indeed, Latvia was by now well into its succession process in following the acquis communautaire route required of membership candidates. But this was now, not later, and the Soviet legacy hung heavy over its former satellites – and particularly over Latvia. As Valdis explained things to me, I realised how true this was.

  I pressed him again: ‘What are you doing in here, Valdis? You should be enjoying your retirement by now.’

  ‘You notice three guys sit behind us in dining room?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You have your back to them but I face them. They are GRU, I am telling you. We should stop sitting together.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Believe me. I recognise them anywhere. For one thing, they don’t communicate with other prisoners – at all. Second, guards leave them alone. You never see guards bothering them as they do with us and the others.’

  ‘Maybe they’re just gangsters who bribe the guards to treat them well. It doesn’t make them GRU, surely?’

  He laughed. ‘If you spend most of your life as close to that organisation as I have, then you would understand. They are here to watch me. Makes sense. I explain everything later. It is too early now, but we must be careful. I don’t want you to get involved. They are bad people. From now on we don’t sit together and we try and mix more with other prisoners. Okay?’

  ‘Sure, no worries. But are we safe from them here?’ I gestured around the laundry room.

  ‘For now, yes, safe. So now I must continue. We don’t have much time.’

  Having endured weeks of interrogation in Moscow, Valdis had been rehabilitated and sent back to sea, again as a political officer for Morflot. He would never be fully trusted by the GRU but they had bigger fish to fry than Valdis Ozols and he was granted conditional clearance.

  ‘For next twelve years I continue my life as seafarer. Never promoted, just keep my job as third mate and political officer and I was good at my job, because I knew the GRU were keeping eye on me. Was obvious. So I had to take great care. Did not do much real spying for British for all those years. Of course, I send coded messages back on port activities that I thought may be useful, but I felt guilty I was not doing more for Archie. He treated me well and he hoped I would provide good intelligence – deeper intelligence. But risk was too great and I was afraid. I had heard a story from some of the other Morflot political officers. Still disturbs me today.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I told you about Cuba and shipping those missiles. Well, what I did not tell you was that it was GRU man who helped stop that crisis turning into war. Was double agent called Oleg Penkovsky, worked for MI6. They were sharing their intelligence with CIA of course. Penkovsky provided much intelligence, including technical details about missile launch sites in Cuba. They say this gave Kennedy the information he needed to confront Khrushchev.’

  ‘What happened to Penkovsky? Did he get caught?’

  ‘Yes. Following year he was arrested, tried and executed.’

  ‘Hardly surprising.’

  ‘No, but how he was executed frightened me, even now it frightens me.’

  ‘I thought it was a bullet in the back of the head for those kinds of crimes?’

  ‘Not for Penkovsky. They tie him to stretcher and burn him alive in crematorium.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Meant as warning to others, GRU style. Make me afraid of fire, Angus.’

  ‘But you still went ahead and spied against them.’

  ‘Yes, but only after many years, because something happened. I will tell you.’

  No sooner had he spoken than a prison guard came into the laundry. He began shouting at Valdis who just stood impassively, politely answering the man’s staccato questions.

  ‘What
was all that about?’ I asked when he’d stormed out.

  ‘I complained about machines.’ He gestured at the old hulks around us. ‘Half of them are broken and the rest are rusty inside. They are shit. He says not for prisoner to complain and anyway we talk too much. He says he could send us to work in other part of prison.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The latrines. Don’t worry, it was just threat because I complain. Not up to him to reassign anyone anywhere, but we must be careful. Let us continue tomorrow. Enough for one day, eh?’

  Chapter 9

  Daugavpils, Latvia

  April 1999

  ‘So where was I? Ah, yes, 1975.’

  We were back in the laundry room. I was getting increasingly nervous about our meetings, but Valdis was persistent. He spoke more urgently now, determined to tell his story before jumping forward to the real purpose of our collaboration. ‘I cannot tell you what is all about if you don’t understand background. Please understand, yes?’ he would say.

  And I always did say yes. It didn’t really matter I told myself, and if I was going to be in there for nine years, it helped pass the time. But there was something else besides relief from the hopeless boredom we endured and the sense of life passing me by. I needed to find out how he thought I could help him, and maybe help myself too.

  ‘I was serving on ship of Latvian Shipping Company. Managed by Morflot, of course. They manage all merchant fleets in Soviet Union – Latvian, Estonian, Ukrainian. We were chartered to FESCO, Far Eastern Shipping Company, which operated liner service out of Nakhodka and Vladivostok calling at ports all around Far East. It was good run. We would be in port many days, sometimes a week or two. And usually allowed shore leave – good for crew and good for me – I could send messages to London, by dead drops.

  ‘Then something happened. Was September ‘75. We were eastbound from Hai Phong. Yes, same port you sailed from, my friend. But we were bound for Makassar in Celebes. Our course took us across Sulu Sea. Was very beautiful. Calm waters after South China Sea. Sea was blue like sky, forests on islands green like emerald, beaches white. Little outrigger boats skim about all over place, sails bright with many colours: yellow, brown, green/blue, and stripes too. So beautiful.’