The Code Read online

  THE CODE

  A Cold War thriller

  Nick Elliott

  Seaward Publishing

  THE CODE

  By Nick Elliott

  Published by Seaward Publishing

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright © Nick Elliott, 2021

  The right of Nick Elliott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, other than other than in which it was purchased, without the written permission of the author.

  ISBN 978-0-9929028-7-2

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is coincidental.

  Formatted by Jo Harrison – Author Assistant

  To my granddaughters,

  Iona and Laila

  ‘It is insane that two men, sitting on opposite sides of the world, should be able to decide to bring an end to civilisation.’

  John F. Kennedy, commenting on the Cuban Missile Crisis, 27 October 1962

  ‘Peace is not the absence of conflict, it is the ability to handle conflict by peaceful means.’

  Paraphrased from Ronald Reagan’s Address to the Nation on the eve of the Soviet–United States Summit Meeting in Geneva, 14 November 1985

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Reviews

  Author’s Note

  The Code is a prequel to the subsequent Angus McKinnon thrillers: Sea of Gold, Dark Ocean and Black Reef. It spans the period from 1963 up to and including the Millennium.

  By way of Kim Philby’s infamous treachery and his defection to Moscow, the book follows the espionage career of Valdis, a Latvian merchant marine officer, and his bleak encounter with Angus, which leads to their collaboration and to an enduring friendship. This partnership and the high-risk mission they must pursue together form the basis of the story.

  Along the way, Angus himself is introduced to the perilous world of spying, marking his own transition from seafarer to marine investigator, a career move that will invariably entangle him in the murky events of international espionage within the maritime world.

  Sharing the same name as Nicholas Elliott, a senior British intelligence officer during the 1950s and ‘60s, helped spark the initiating idea for the story. I have therefore recreated an approximation of his character under a fictional name.

  So The Code, at least in its early stages, is a work of reimagined history.

  Nick Elliott

  Scotland, 2021

  Chapter 1

  Beirut

  23 January 1963

  Philby took little heed of the storm that swept across the city that night. His mind was elsewhere. He’d been drinking on and off all day, mostly vodka, but he wasn’t drunk. At least, he didn’t think he was. To Kim Philby, being drunk was an attitude of mind: something controllable and, not least, a tool of his trade. It had to be. Tonight though, his self-control was on the point of collapse. This was it. His time was up. He’d thought about how it would be for so many years, rehearsed it in his mind yet never quite expected the time would come for the vanishing act, for the fade.

  He met his KGB handler on the corner of Rue Kantari, the street where he lived, and May Ziadeh. He wore a Burberry trenchcoat and a black Homburg clamped firmly onto his head. He carried a small, battered leather suitcase, his go bag, containing two shirts, some underwear, socks, a sponge bag and a couple of novels, both of them Russian classics: Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Tolstoy’s The Cossacks. Any irony in the former’s title did not occur to him. He had never considered himself a criminal and did not see his defection now as in any way a punishment. He climbed into the back of the car beside the handler, a burly KGB veteran a few years older than Philby and a man he’d never warmed to. With headlights cutting through the rain, they drove off into the night. The gusts rocked the car as they wound their way through the deserted streets towards Beirut’s port, the car’s wipers struggling to cope with the rain that lashed the windscreen, the driver hunched over the wheel, gripping it tightly to prevent the car from veering off the road. Winter storms were not unusual in Lebanon but this was a wild one. Philby couldn’t help thinking it was a portent.

  Only briefly did he think of the dinner party where he’d been expected that evening. And what his wife, Eleanor, would think, if she only knew. Neither did he spare much thought for the past. There’d be time for reflection later – plenty of time. Betrayal of his country, of the Service, or of the men and women whose lives had been lost as a result of his treachery – these things didn’t cross his mind for a minute. For what he had done was for a cause. To Philby, that was what counted: the cause of Socialism. For him it was a creed. For the past thirty-odd years he’d fought for that cause as one fought a war. And in war there were casualties, or so he rationalised. But there was more to it than that, though he would never admit it, even to himself. The truth was that he’d become irrationally addicted to the thrill of secrecy and deception. It was a drug, just like the alcohol he consumed so liberally.

  He forced the door of the car open, pushing it against the wind. Rain swept sideways across the quayside as the two men struggled to make their way towards the ship. Despite the shelter provided by the breakwaters, white horses rode madly across the harbour and the vessel ranged awkwardly against her fenders. Her name, Dolmatova, showed starkly white on black on the prow above them. Philby found the femininity of the name strangely comforting and in doing so, despite himself, was forced to recognise the unfamiliar feeling that had lodged itself in his gut as dread. He’d learned to live with the insecurities of life as a double agent, as the mole, to disguise his inner feelings and control his emotions. He’d become skilled in the art of deception and of manipulating people and situations. And, perhaps because of the gentlemanly culture that pervaded the Service, he had never felt seriously endangered in the physical sense. Now though, control was in the hands of others. He was headed for Moscow. Philby dismissed the anxiety he briefly felt. He had friends in Moscow. He’d served their cause loyally for so long. He would be feted, lionised as a hero.

  As he and his stony-faced handler made their way towards the ship, heads bowed against the storm, Philby took little notice of the two men coming down the gangway. The man in front was Valdis Ozols. A Latvian, he was the ship’s third mate and, in accordance with common practice, was also the Dolmatova’s political officer. Behind him was another Latvian, an able seaman. Though he didn’t know it, it was this second man’s identity that Philby would assume for the purpose of his onward journey.

  Leaning forward against the weather, the two Latvians moved towards the car that had brought Philby and his handler to the ship. The AB got in beside the driver. Valdis Ozols went round to the driver’s side and exchanged a few words with him. Stepping bac
k, he paused to look after them as they drove off, then he turned to walk back to the ship.

  From the darkness over by one of the cargo warehouses twenty yards away, someone called his name. He stopped and turned in the direction of the voice, not sure whether he’d heard correctly over the sound of the storm. Then a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. ‘Come,’ he called, beckoning Valdis towards him.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘We’d like a word,’ called the figure, speaking fluent Russian, a language Valdis understood almost as well as his mother tongue; well enough to tell that it wasn’t the mother tongue of the tall, stooped stranger; he was fluent perhaps, but not a native speaker.

  Valdis hesitated, more curious than alarmed. The voice was not threatening, rather it was relaxed – a deep, measured tone. He walked cautiously over to where the man was waiting. He’d moved out from the shadows and was standing beside one of the quay cranes concealed from the ship. Now Valdis could make out another man, even taller, behind him. The first man stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ‘Pleased to meet you, my dear fellow,’ he said, again in his formal Russian, his voice carrying above the wind which whistled through the crane’s superstructure. ‘Care to join me for a drink?’

  The two men shook hands, but Valdis could make out that the man behind was carrying a pistol – and it was pointing straight at him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re with the British government, Foreign Office. This chap here is my colleague, Tim Harper,’ said the tall man, gesturing towards his companion with the gun. ‘And I’m David Williams.’ Neither were their real names. In reality Harper’s name was Phillip Hardy and the tall man wearing a dark raincoat, thick spectacles and calling himself David Williams was Archie Anderson. They were both officers of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6.

  While Philby had recognised his apprehension as dread, Valdis Ozols now felt in his gut the first tentative surge of excitement.

  The three men walked around the side of the warehouse to where a big Jaguar saloon was parked. Hardy got into the driver’s seat. Anderson ushered Valdis into the back and walked over to the other side, moving in alongside him. Valdis had never been in car a like this. As they drove silently towards the port’s gates, he tried to settle himself into the comfort of the leather seats, but his thoughts were confused, tumbling over one another in a disordered torrent. He’d just been abducted at gunpoint. His ship was about to sail and here he was sitting beside this strange foreigner heading away from the security of the vessel, which to all intents and purposes was his home. And yet, this was it, surely. But dare he allow himself such a thought? He’d known the English spy Philby was coming aboard and that they would take him to the Black Sea port of Odessa from where he’d be transferred to Moscow. Now here he was in this beautiful car with these two strangers.

  Anderson interrupted his thoughts: ‘Relax, Comrade. You’re in safe hands. Here, have a cigar.’

  Valdis took one from the proffered leather pouch. Anderson lit it and then lit one for himself. He opened the window a fraction to let the smoke out into the darkness, but not far enough for the rain to get in. The car’s interior was warm. The smell of leather and cigars enveloped them. They were heading north towards the outskirts of the city now as Anderson pulled down the walnut tray table set into the back of the driver’s seat and gestured to Valdis to do the same before opening the central drinks cabinet set on the floor between them. He placed two crystal tumblers from the cabinet onto the tray tables then retrieved a steel flask and carefully poured large measures of whisky into each glass.

  ‘Laphroaig – a malt from the Hebridean isle of Islay. An acquired taste but I like it. Nostrovia!’

  ‘English,’ said Valdis. ‘I prefer to speak English.’

  ‘Good. Cheers then!’ That’s a good sign, thought Anderson, also switching to English. ‘Here’s to friendship.’

  As they clinked their glasses and the car sped north on the road to Byblos, the Dolmatova passed into the fairway, through the protective arms of the breakwater and out into the tempestuous Mediterranean. Philby sat on his bunk in a cabin that smelled of sweat. He was already well into a bottle of Ararat brandy. As the ship began to pitch and roll in the heavy swell, he felt the bile rising in his throat. He stood up, struggling to keep his balance, staggered over to the cracked washbasin in the corner of the cabin and threw up.

  It was almost midnight on the 23rd of January 1963.

  Chapter 2

  Byblos, Lebanon

  January/February 1963

  The safe house they took Valdis to was set in the hills above the city of Byblos, not far from its twelfth-century castle and some twenty-five miles north of Beirut.

  ‘One of the oldest cities in the world, you know,’ Hardy, a resident of Beirut, had informed them as they approached, in what was to become a running commentary on the history of the Lebanon. ‘First occupied ten thousand years ago they reckon. Early Neolithic.’

  ‘Really,’ Anderson had replied, his mind elsewhere. He was quietly satisfied with how smoothly the abduction had gone. Almost too well – but that was his suspicious mind, he told himself. Before he went to bed that first night he called his wife, Evelyn. She knew better than to ask what he was up to, though could tell from his tone that whatever it was had gone well. Instead she gave him an update on how the family was doing back in England. Their sixteen-year-old son, who was studying at Harrow, had some big exams approaching. And, of course, the weather was dreadful with the whole country snowbound and frozen up in the worst winter for years. They chatted on for ten minutes or so of mundane domestic matters before exchanging a few more intimate words and calling off, with Anderson promising to ring again in a few days.

  Then, sitting in the living room looking out at the storm through the French windows of the villa and with Valdis safely under Hardy’s watchful eye in an upstairs bedroom, he savoured a final nip of Laphroaig and pondered over the events of the last few days. He had, in the course of several meetings, obtained the signed confession from Philby, his old friend but now his nemesis, that he’d been sent to Beirut to secure. He’d given him two options: either be returned to London to face trial at the Old Bailey on charges of treason, followed almost certainly by a life sentence, or, if he confessed to everything including names of agents, moles and secrets he’d revealed to his masters in Moscow, defection. There had been a third option which Anderson had presented in the form of a hard, silent stare across the table. Both men knew what that was: expedient demise. But it didn’t need spelling out.

  Then, having secured Philby’s confession, he had orchestrated an agreement with the KGB’s head of station to transport Philby to Moscow by whatever means were available. Finally, knowing from his sources in Naval Intelligence that the Dolmatova was in port and that her young political officer was quite possibly ripe for plucking, he’d nabbed Valdis Ozols from under the noses of his masters. It had been too good an opportunity to miss. Political officers had other responsibilities besides ensuring their fellow shipmates conformed with Soviet doctrine, and it was these that interested him.

  The question of how to handle the young Latvian had not been discussed at any great length in London. Anderson wanted to control the enrolment process, the debriefing and subsequent briefing himself. This wasn’t because he was controlling by nature. On the contrary, he was generally compliant in his dealings with colleagues, including his superiors. But Valdis was different. Anderson felt bitterly let down by Philby’s treachery; it was a deeply personal matter for him. Not only that, but he knew some of the stain that the whole scandalous business had left on the Service’s reputation, particularly in the eyes of their sister service, MI5, however small, had tarnished him and others too for not having recognised signs of Philby’s duplicity earlier. Rationally speaking that wasn’t fair and C himself had been at pains to tell him and his colleagues not to dwell on it. Nevertheless, Anderson knew that the successful recruitment of such a potenti
ally valuable, long-term asset as Valdis Ozols was a means by which he could restore what he believed to be his dented reputation – a redemption of sorts.

  As often happened, his mind went back to the war. Seconded to Lisbon, his job had been to monitor anti-British activity in the city and in doing so he’d become a highly effective field officer, not least in securing the defection of two senior German intelligence officers, a coup that had severely damaged the effectiveness of Germany’s foreign intelligence service, the Abwehr. He was proud of this achievement and looked back on those days with some nostalgia. He was proud too that the operation was still used as a case study in the Service’s training programme. Now, as a senior MI6 officer, he still enjoyed a high degree of independence which he was determined to put to good use in his handling of Valdis Ozols.

  He slept well that night but woke early to the sound of the wind thrashing the branches of the trees outside his bedroom window. And it was as he lay in bed reflecting on the events of the previous day that unbidden doubts began to creep into his mind. In his business no one could ever be completely trusted. He didn’t need reminding of that. Lies, betrayal, subterfuge: these were all part and parcel of his trade. As a field agent during the war he had practised many of these black arts himself and was good at it. So now he wondered, was it wise to take his young recruit’s loyalty for granted? For now perhaps, but it was always possible that as time went by, circumstances might cause Valdis Ozols to regret hasty decisions taken in his younger days. Or worse, it was possible, although he judged unlikely, that Ozols was a plant skilfully put in place by the Soviets to operate as a triple. Eager to deal with these disturbing thoughts, Anderson rose from his bed and stepped out onto the balcony. The storm was passing but the wind was still strong enough to bend the branches of the trees in the garden below as dark, ragged clouds raced across the early morning sky. He laughed to himself. Of course he was right to feel these concerns. Wasn’t it his job to be suspicious? More than that, it had become second nature. But it did no harm to remind himself to take nothing for granted. Assumption, after all, was the mother of all cock-ups.