‘Five.’
He talks to her about his time in London and makes her laugh with his descriptions of the English. But she knows that he has not asked her to this hospital waiting room to listen to his jokes. He has another, more serious purpose, which must wait until he is ready to tell her.
‘Did you ever meet my friend Gregor?’ he asks. ‘We were students together at the Engineering Academy.’
She shakes her head. It is not a name she knows.
‘I want to tell you about him.’
In the last year of the war, he says, Gregor Bakov worked as a military planner on the general staff. He was a member of the team that devised the final push by the Red Army through Eastern Europe to Berlin. He saw first-hand that there were two agendas: the need to achieve a military victory and how that military victory was to be exploited for political purposes. Bakov as a loyal Party member had no objection to the race to Berlin bringing the Soviet Union political advantage once the war was over. But he had fought at Stalingrad, he had witnessed the appalling slaughter of men and women there and when the battle was over, he resolved he would oppose any act which put the lives of Soviet soldiers at greater risk than was necessary.
He watched as the strategic objectives of the military planners were overruled by the political commissariat. He saw how corners were cut for political ends, how risks were to be taken in the campaign in order to extend the borders of Russian influence. He realized that these tactics took no account of the welfare of the troops, that Soviet lives would be thrown away to ensure that the Russians reached Berlin well before the Americans and the British. He remembered the sickening images of the dead in Stalingrad, frozen in grotesque postures, every corpse in that city a dreadful, silent plea that such a conflict might never again take place. It was intolerable now to be taking part, on this last crusade of the war, in the unnecessary slaughter of his fellow citizens. Soldiers were men, not animals.
‘For the sake of saving human lives, Bakov knew he had to do something.’
His distress brought him to the brink of suicide. The only result of putting a gun to his head would be his removal from the planning committee. He would be quickly replaced, the policy he opposed would continue and the lives of the men he wanted to save would still be wasted. Suicide would achieve nothing. Should he make a lone protest? Should he refuse to take part in the planning exercise? That would bring about his own arrest and trial, no better than suicide.
Days of desperation followed as he sought a solution. Then came inspiration. He would inform Russia’s allies, the Americans, of the secret Red Army plans. In the debate in his mind, he repeated the word allies again and again, to convince himself he was not acting as a traitor. If they were made aware of Soviet intentions, perhaps the West would find a way of exercising some restraining influence. They were, after all, still fighting together for the defeat of a common enemy. With the information he would provide, the allies would argue Bakov’s case for him and the Soviet High Command might be forced to change their plans, to slow down, and fewer lives would be lost.
‘He saw the passing of information to the West about Russian military intentions as a patriotic act, not a betrayal.’
Early one morning, his briefcase full of secret papers snatched from the cabinets in his office, Bakov went to the American embassy. He showed them some of the documents in his possession and explained their importance. He waited for their response., Calmly, they gathered up the papers without looking at them and replaced them in his briefcase. He begged them to listen to what he had to say. But the American officials on duty at that hour were unmoved by his appeals.
‘The Americans thought he was a plant. That’s why they refused him. Nothing he could say or do would shift them.’
Taking him by both arms, they escorted him to the door of the embassy building. A military policeman pushed him out into the street, knocking his fur hat off in the process. Bakov watched it roll down the embassy steps and with it went all his hopes.
He was distraught. He now had less than ninety minutes in which to return the papers or the alarm would be raised. He had planned for many contingencies but never that his gift would be refused. He wandered disconsolately through the dark and deserted Moscow streets. Then, by the Embankment, his fate gave him a second chance.
‘He sees a figure coming out of a building in the diplomatic compound. He notices the furtive movements, so similar to his own, looking both ways to make sure the coast is clear before he emerges into the street. Then, head buried in the upturned collar of his greatcoat, the figure hurries away in the darkness. Is it Bakov’s imagination or does the man look up at a window for a brief moment? Does a curtain move? Is there a woman’s face behind the curtain? He will never be sure.
‘From his hiding place in the doorway of a building, he recognizes the hurrying figure as Major Martineau, one of the military attachés at the British embassy whom he met at a reception some months before. Bakov hurries after him. He introduces himself, reminds him where they met and as they hurry on together, Bakov breathlessly explains what he has in his briefcase.
‘Martineau asks Bakov to accompany him to his flat. There is a great risk but by now Bakov is so desperate he does not care.
‘“Not a sound,” Martineau whispers as he puts his key in the lock. “My wife is asleep. I am on night duty at present.” He lies without a hint of difficulty but Bakov is too ridden with anxiety to notice.’
Martineau takes him into the bathroom, signalling that Bakov is to say nothing. Then he turns on the tap and lets it run. Now, he says, it is safe to speak. Bakov opens his case and hands over a few of the papers. It takes Martineau only a few moments to realize their importance. He fetches a camera and photographs the sample, and then makes an arrangement to meet Bakov at a safe house in Moscow later that evening.
‘How will I know you?’ Martineau asks.
‘My name,’ Bakov says, ‘is Peter the Great.’
Martineau shakes Bakov’s hand and sends him away to return the papers before their absence can be discovered. The meeting in his apartment has taken less than ten minutes.
‘That is how the British got Peter the Great,’ Krasov says. ‘Whether they understand what they have got is another matter altogether. But as a source of information about the Soviet Union, Peter is unrivalled.’
For the last months of the war the deception worked, and secret Russian military plans were regularly despatched to the British. What use they made of them Bakov never knew, but he had to assume that his acts were saving the lives of his fellow citizens. Then, in the second week of March 1945, Bakov sensed he was being watched. It was nothing overt, just an instinct, though about what he was unable to say. He aborted a planned meeting for a handover of documents at the safe house.
Martineau had no contact with him for a week. When Bakov did reappear, he said, ‘We are nearing the end.’
Martineau imagined he meant the end of the war, but Bakov said: ‘They suspect me. If I am caught they will execute me. I can die in the knowledge that I achieved something. Be patient. You may think he is dead, but he will be resurrected. Peter will never die.’ He shook Martineau’s hand. ‘Thank you for believing in me. You are a good man.’
Martineau never saw Bakov again. Two days later he was arrested by the KGB, given a summary trial and was already dead on the day the war ended. But before his arrest, he had secretly passed on responsibility for Peter the Great to Ivan Ulanov, an expert in the design of electronic navigational devices for shells and missiles. He had been a fellow student with Bakov and he too had his own reasons for hating the regime for which he worked. His parents, both teachers, had been arrested in 1938 on invented charges of conspiracy against the state (Bakov’s father taught English and copies of the novels of Charles Dickens had been found in his apartment, sufficient proof of treachery at that time). Both had been sent to concentration camps and he had never seen them again. His, exhilaration rapidly turned to terror when he learned of Bakov
’s arrest and trial.
For weeks Ulanov could bring himself to do nothing. This was the time of Peter’s silence. In an attempt to regain his courage, Ulanov took to following Martineau. He got to know the daily pattern of his movements, his rota at the embassy. He became an expert in what he called ‘Martineau’s nocturnal habits’, his visits to the dark-haired wife of a French consular official. He rehearsed his meeting with Martineau a hundred times. Then, early one morning, he caught up with the scurrying figure of the military attaché, handed him a briefcase and said only one word before walking quickly away: ‘Peter.’ Peter the Great had come back to life. Bakov’s faith was vindicated.
By December 1945, the ever-vigilant KGB had caught Ulanov, but before his arrest he had recruited Joseph Militarossian who, months later, brought in Boris Shtemenko. Peter was passed from hand to hand. The flow of intelligence may stutter occasionally but it does not stop, but nor does the line of corpses of those associated with it. All of them, she knows, are Little Krasov’s friends.
It is dark outside now; the windows have turned black while Little Krasov has been talking. The hall is flooded with an icy blue light. From time to time she is dimly aware of names being called and of figures shuffling past her to be directed down ill-lit corridors by sour-faced nurses with the doughy complexions of camp guards.
Krasov is pouring more tea from the flask. Why is he telling me about Peter the Great? What am I to do with all this? Could it be a trap? She controls a sudden wave of paranoia. She has known Little Krasov all her life – surely they have been through too much together for him to betray her now? Then she remembers it is years since she last saw him. In that time, what might have happened to him that she does not know about?
She looks at the small dark man next to her, leaning forward as he speaks to touch her hand, she hears the urgency in his deep voice as the story unfolds, she remembers the adventures of their childhood and youth, she sees the Krasov she has always known. How could he lie to her when they have shared so much? She must be patient and wait for him to explain why he has to tell her this story. Then she will make her judgement or, perhaps, by then no judgement will be necessary.
Suddenly the lights fail and the hall is plunged in darkness. ‘How many times this week?’ someone says in the row behind her, and groans of complaint follow at yet another power failure. ‘What’s happening to this country?’
Within seconds lighters and matches flare. Grotesque, moving shapes are projected on to the walls and ceiling: huge heads, distended bodies, insect-like arms, a world of deformity. Then, where before voices could be heard in conversation, a whispering begins, a rising sibilant sound, the soft Russians like fingertips sliding across velvet.
Krasov, holding his lighter in his hand, his face illuminated by the blue flame, continues his story undeterred.
‘Why I am telling you this? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Why should Little Krasov reappear in your life after so many years to tell you these dreadful things about people you don’t know?’ He leans closer to her; she can feel his breath on her cheek and see the flame of his lighter reflected in his eyes. ‘I am your friend, Ruth. Your loving friend. I have brought you here to warn you.’
My life is too simple to need warnings, she wants to say. It revolves around my son, my mother and my work. How carefully I have avoided any other involvement.
‘Warn me about what?’ she asks.
‘I attend committees, read reports, see documents. I keep my eyes and ears open, Ruth. Perhaps that is why I have lived so long. I beg you to be careful.’
His words terrify her even though he has told her nothing concrete.
‘I am not involved in anything,’ she says. Denial is an instinct, a protective second nature.
‘Madness has corrupted our lives,’ he says. ‘A name on a piece of paper can put your life at risk. Your name came up in a secret report on the explosion in D4.’
She must test him now. See how much he knows.
‘The official report exonerated the Institute of any blame.’
‘You didn’t believe what you read and nor did I. The explosion wasn’t an accident. A decision was taken at a high level to damage the laboratory and to blow up the apartment block.’
‘And kill all those old people?’
‘That was all part of the plan, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘We want the British and the Americans to believe we cannot master the techniques needed to make nuclear weapons. We want them to think we are falling further behind in the race to make our atomic bomb. Now do you understand?’
She shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, ‘that can’t be so.’ But of course, Little Krasov’s story fits.
‘The explosion destroyed everything within a large area. The laboratory and the apartment block are sealed off and guarded. To deceive the West the impact must appear larger and more damaging than it was. Peter has told them we have suffered a catastrophe.’
‘Why kill old people?’ she asks, maintaining the pretence.
‘To confuse our enemies. You could say they served their country in the way they died.’
As he speaks his face disappears into the darkness. He has moved his hand and the flame of the cigarette lighter flickers.
‘What did the report say about me, Leo?’ At last she finds the strength to ask what she so wants, but fears, to know.
‘It said that you were fully aware of what was to happen and had made sure that no research of any value was lost in the explosion. It expresses the fear that you may tell Professor Stevens the truth about what happened.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Because you were once his lover.’
If this whole business with Stevens goes wrong, he is saying, you will not escape. Your name is there, on a list, ready to have a black cross marked against it.
‘I knew nothing of all this, Leo. Nothing. Believe me.’
‘I do believe you, Ruth.’ His deep black eyes stare at her out of the gloom. ‘You are involved with powerful and dangerous forces. You have your protectors now, but if they should slip, then you will be alone, facing a power you cannot even imagine. Take care, Ruth. That is what I came to say. Trust no one. You must beware for your own protection. If I knew more I would tell you.’
This is why they are huddled close together in a hospital waiting room talking in whispers, surrounded by little flickering lights. He does not know about Andropov (or she assumes he doesn’t know) but he is warning her that to reduce her life to its essentials is not as effective as she believes it is.
At that moment, the power is restored and the lights come on again. There are ragged cheers around the room, a few handclaps. She looks at him and sees his saucer eyes are fixed on her; his hands, still outstretched, are trembling.
It is an act of conscience. The proof that Little Krasov will always be her friend. The thought of it strengthens her in her moment of distress. She wonders how could she have doubted him so. She knows now why he is telling her so much. Krasov is leaving Russia for ever. He has come to say goodbye and he wants her blessing before his departure.
‘I am leaving Moscow,’ he is saying. ‘Going far away. It is unlikely we will ever see each other again.’
She sees the sadness illuminated in his expression, she feels the tight grip of his hand on her arm.
‘Where are you going?’ she whispers.
‘I dare not say, even to you.’
He does not want to hide the truth from her. The motive for his refusal is that even in this act of farewell he wants to protect her. If she knows his secret then she becomes vulnerable. He would never place her own safety in jeopardy. Knowing that, she does not persist with her question. Now she is convinced he is telling the truth.
‘Oh Leo, Leo.’
There are tears in her eyes. When he has gone she will be truly alone. He holds her in his arms as she cries, clinging to him with all the strength she can muster.
‘Ruth, pleas
e.’
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye, she wants to say, but she finds she cannot say anything.
3
MONTY
The few short weeks in March and April were the glory days of Peter’s career. He was our eyes and ears as the crisis developed in the Institute of Nuclear Research. His intelligence was unsurpassed in its clarity and the momentous nature of its content. There were times when Horseferry Road was closer to Moscow than to Westminster Abbey.
Our astonishment at Peter’s report of Marchenko’s challenge to the Institute’s safety policy turned to incredulity when, not long after, a group of like-minded scientists formed themselves around her into a small but effective opposition to Soviet nuclear research. Their tactics had pushed an already seriously delayed programme to the edge of crisis when their laboratory exploded and the setback became a disaster. Within days they faced their directorate with an ultimatum. Without major concessions on the issue of the political control of nuclear weapons, they were no longer willing to work on the nuclear bomb project. It was an unprecedented challenge by a small group of scientists against the authority of the Soviet State. We waited anxiously for Peter to report that the Soviet system had taken its revenge in the usual manner. Days passed but nothing happened.
Who were these courageous men and women whose actions had the power to hold the Soviet Union to ransom? We trawled the Registry for information. Our findings were thin. We discovered next to nothing about Marchenko, Markarova, Gromsky, Tomasov, Lykowski and the others. We put the word out to our SOVINT network in the universities and fared not much better. We were given one or two articles from pre-war scientific journals that Tomasov and Gromsky had written, but these were juvenile pieces and no guide to their politics, their resolve or their present positions in the Institute. Marchenko’s group was the new generation of post-war Soviet scientists, many of whom had come to prominence in wartime research programmes, a period when international scientific conferences (now essential intelligence-gathering grounds in the post-war world) had ceased to exist. New reputations had been made away from the spotlight and we knew little or nothing about them.
Making Enemies Page 24
