Mightier Than the Sword (43 page)

Fisher gripped the sides of the witness box to stop his hands from shaking.

“Can you tell the court how much profit you made when you bought and sold your Barrington’s shares?” asked Trelford as he continued to look down at a hotel bill from his recent trip to Hong Kong. He waited for some time before he placed the receipt back in his file, looked up at the judge, and said, “My lady, as Major Fisher seems unwilling to answer any more of my questions, I see no purpose in continuing.” He sat down and smiled at Emma.

“Sir Edward,” said Mrs. Justice Lane, “do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”

“Just a couple of questions, if I may,” said Sir Edward, sounding unusually subdued.

“Major Fisher, is there any suggestion that Lady Virginia Fenwick was aware that you were trading in Barrington’s shares on your own behalf?”

“No, sir.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were simply her advisor, and all the transactions carried out in her name were conducted within the full rigors of the law?”

“They were indeed, Sir Edward.”

“I am obliged to you for that clarification. No more questions, my lady.”

The judge was writing furiously while Fisher remained motionless in the witness box, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Finally she put her pen down and said, “Before you leave the court, Major Fisher, I must tell you that I intend to send a transcript of your evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions, so they can decide if any further legal action should be taken.”

As the major stepped out of the witness box and made his way out of the courtroom, the press corps deserted their benches and followed him out into the corridor like a pack of baying hounds pursuing a wounded fox.

Giles leaned forward, patted Trelford on the back, and said, “Well done, sir. You crucified him.”

“Him, yes, but not her. Thanks to those two carefully worded questions from Sir Edward, Lady Virginia lives to fight another day.”

41

S
OMETHING WAS WRONG
. Surely this couldn’t possibly be Anatoly Babakov. Harry stared at the frail skeleton of a man who shuffled into the courtroom and collapsed on to the stool opposite the state prosecutor.

Babakov was dressed in a suit and shirt that hung on him as if he were a coat hanger. They were both several sizes too large for him, and Harry’s first thought was that he must have borrowed them from a stranger that morning. And then he realized that they were Babakov’s own suit and shirt; he just hadn’t worn them since the day he’d been sent to prison, all those years ago. His hair was thinning, and the few strands left were steel gray. His eyes, also gray, had sunk back into their sockets, and his skin was lined and parched, not from the heat of the sun, but from endless hours of exposure to the frozen winds born on the Siberian plains. Babakov looked about seventy, even eighty, although Harry knew they were contemporaries so he couldn’t be much more than fifty.

The state prosecutor rose from his place; the sycophant replaced by the bully. He looked right through Babakov and addressed him with a cold arrogance, so different from the manner afforded to the comrade colonel when he’d been in the witness box.

“Tell the court your name and number,” he demanded.

“Babakov, seven-four-one-six-two, comrade prosecutor.”

“Do not address me in that familiar manner.”

The prisoner bowed his head. “I apologize, sir.”

“Before you were convicted, Babakov, what was your occupation?”

“I was a school teacher in the seventh district of Moscow.”

“How many years did you teach at that school?”

“Thirteen years, sir.”

“And the subject you taught?”

“English.”

“What were your qualifications?”

“I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in Moscow in 1941.”

“So after graduating, your first job was as a school teacher, and you’ve never worked anywhere else?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“During those thirteen years as a school teacher, did you ever visit the Kremlin?”

“No, I did not, sir. Never.”

The vehemence with which Babakov said “Never” was a clear indication to Harry that he regarded this mock trial as worthy only of ridicule. Every Soviet schoolchild had visited the Kremlin at some time to pay homage at Lenin’s tomb. If Babakov had been a schoolmaster he would even have supervised such visits. Harry had no way of letting him know that he’d got the message without breaking the thin shell of deception.

“At any time did you ever meet our revered leader the chairman of the Presidium Council, Comrade Stalin?” continued the state prosecutor.

“Yes, on one occasion when I was a student he visited the Foreign Languages Institute to present the annual state awards.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Yes, he congratulated me on being awarded my degree.”

Harry knew Babakov had won the Lenin medal and come top of his class. Why didn’t he mention that? Because it wasn’t part of the well-prepared script he had been given, and which he was sticking to. The answers had probably been written by the same person who was asking the questions.

“Other than that brief encounter, did you ever come across Comrade Stalin again?”

“No, sir, never.” Once again, he exaggerated the word “never.”

Harry was beginning to form a plan in his mind. If it was to work, he would have to convince those three stony-faced comrades sitting in judgement that he believed every word Babakov was uttering, and was appalled ever to have been taken in by the man.

“I should now like to move on to 1954, when you attempted to have a book published, in which you claimed that you had worked on the president’s private staff for thirteen years as his personal interpreter, when in fact you had never once entered the Kremlin. What made you think you could possibly get away with such a deception?”

“Because, like me, no one who worked at the Sarkoski Press had ever been inside the Kremlin. They had only seen Comrade Stalin from a distance when he reviewed our troops at the May Day parade. So it wasn’t difficult to convince them that I had been a member of his inner circle.”

Harry shook his head in disgust and frowned at Babakov, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it. He saw the chairman make a note on the pad in front of her. Was there even the suggestion of a smile?

“And is it also true that you planned to defect, in the hope of having your book published in the West, with the sole purpose of making a large sum of money?”

“Yes, I thought that if I could fool the people at the Sarkoski Press, how much easier it would be to convince the Americans and the British that I had been a party official working alongside the chairman. After all, how many people from the West have ever visited the Soviet Union, let alone spoken to the comrade chairman, who everyone knows didn’t speak a word of English?”

Harry put his head in his hands and, when he looked up, he stared at Babakov with contempt. The chairman made another note on her pad.

“Once you’d completed the book, why didn’t you defect at the first opportunity?”

“I didn’t have enough money. I had been promised an advance on the day of publication, but I was arrested before I could collect it.”

“But your wife did defect.”

“Yes, I sent her ahead of me with our life savings, hoping I would be able to join her later.”

Harry was appalled by how the prosecutor was mixing half-truths with lies, and wondered how they could possibly think, even for a moment, that he might be deceived by this pantomime. But that was their weakness. Clearly all of them were taken in by their own propaganda, so he decided to play them at their own game.

He nodded whenever the prosecutor seemed to have scored a point. But then he recalled his drama teacher at school chastising him, on more than one occasion, for overacting, so he reined it in.

“Did your wife take a copy of the book with her?” demanded the prosecutor.

“No. It hadn’t been published by the time she left, and in any case she would have been searched when she tried to cross the border, and if she’d had the book with her she would have been arrested and sent straight back to Moscow.”

“But thanks to some brilliant detective work, you were arrested, charged, and sentenced before even one copy of your book reached the shops.”

“Yes,” said Babakov, bowing his head again.

“And when you were charged with offenses against the State, how did you plead?”

“Guilty to all charges.”

“And the people’s court sentenced you to twenty years’ hard labor.”

“Yes, sir. I was lucky to receive such a light sentence for the despicable crime I had committed against the nation.”

Once again Harry realized that Babakov was letting him know he considered the whole trial to be a sham. But it was still important for Harry to look as if he was being taken in by the play within a play.

“That concludes my examination of this witness, comrade chairman,” said the prosecutor, who then bowed low and sat down.

The chairman glanced at the young man who was seated at the other end of the bench.

“Do you have any questions for this witness?”

The young man rose unsteadily to his feet. “No, I do not, comrade chairman. The prisoner Babakov is clearly an enemy of the state.”

Harry felt sorry for the young man, who probably believed every word he’d heard in the courtroom that morning. Harry gave a slight nod to show he also agreed, although the young man’s inexperience had once again given the game away. If he had read more Chekhov he would have realized that silence can often be more powerful than the spoken word.

“Take him away,” said the tribunal chairman.

As Babakov was led out of the courtroom, Harry bowed his head as if he no longer wanted anything to do with the man.

“Comrades, it has been a long day,” said the chairman, turning to the jury. “As Monday is a national holiday, on which we will all remember those brave men and women who sacrificed their lives in the Siege of Leningrad, this court will not reconvene until Tuesday morning, when I will sum up the State’s position, so you can decide if the prisoner is guilty.”

Harry wanted to laugh. He wasn’t even going to be allowed to give evidence, but he was now well aware that this was a tragedy, not a comedy, and he still had his part to play.

The tribunal president rose from her chair and led her colleagues out of the courtroom. No sooner had the door closed behind them than two prison guards grabbed Harry by the arms, and dragged him out of the room.

As he had nearly four days of solitude ahead of him, he was already looking forward to the challenge of seeing how much more he could remember of
Uncle Joe.
Chapter three. He began mouthing the words as they bundled him out of court.

Stalin not only made history, but was also happy to rewrite it, and there is no better example than the way he treated his family. His second wife, Nadya, took her own life because “she would rather die than remain married to such an evil tyrant.” On hearing of her death, Stalin immediately ordered that her suicide was to remain a state secret, as he feared the truth would bring him disgrace in the eyes of his comrades and enemies alike …

One of the guards unlocked the heavy cell door and his colleague pushed the prisoner inside.

Even as he fell on the floor, Harry sensed that he was not alone in the cell. He looked up and saw him hunched in the corner, a forefinger pressed firmly to his lips.

“Speak only in English,” were Babakov’s first words.

Harry nodded, and looked back to see one of the guards staring through the bars. The charade was still being played out. He crouched down a few feet away from Babakov.

“They need to believe you were convinced by everything you’ve just witnessed,” Babakov whispered. “If they do, they’ll allow you to go home.”

“But how will that help you?” asked Harry. “Especially if I have to sign a confession saying that I accept you made it all up.”

“Because I can tell you how to get your hands on a copy of
Uncle Joe
without being caught.”

“Is that still possible?”

“Yes,” said Babakov.

After listening carefully to his new cellmate’s whispered explanation, Harry smiled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

*   *   *

“I appreciate you finding the time to see me,” said Griff, “especially while you’re in the middle of your sister’s trial.”

“Urgent isn’t a word you use often,” said Giles, “and as you caught the first train to London, I assumed it had to be serious.”

“It won’t become public for a few days,” said Griff, “but my mole in the local Tory party office tells me there’s going to be a meeting of their executive committee this evening, and there’s only one item on the agenda. To call for the member’s resignation.”

“And that would mean a by-election,” said Giles thoughtfully.

“Which is why I caught the first train to London.”

“But Conservative Central Office would never allow Fisher to resign while the government are so far behind in the opinion polls.”

“They won’t have a lot of choice if the press goes on calling Fisher ‘the galloping major,’ and you know only too well what that lot are like, once they smell blood. Frankly, I can’t see Fisher lasting more than a few days. So the sooner you get back down to the constituency, the better.”

“I will, the moment the trial’s over.”

“When is that likely to be?”

“A few more days. A week at the most.”

“If you could come down at the weekend, be seen shopping in Broadmead on Saturday morning, go and watch Rovers play in the afternoon, and then attend Matins at St. Mary Redcliffe on Sunday, it would remind people you’re still alive and kicking.”

“If there is a by-election, how would you rate my chances?”

“Of being reselected as the candidate, or of winning the seat back?”

“Both.”

“You’re still just about favorite to be the candidate, although several women on the executive keep raising the fact that you’ve had two marriages break down. But I’m working on them, and it helps that you turned down a place in the Lords because you wanted to fight the seat again.”