Peter Marshall - The Russian Lieutenant

During a restful Saturday, Marina rang her parents, who were surprised and delighted to know that she was safely back in London – and even more excited by the prospect of getting together, at last, the next day. But otherwise, Marina had a quiet evening and an early night to readjust her time clock.

As Patricia had suggested, the Sunday lunch was booked by Victor Peters at a West End hotel; it was just the opportunity for Marina to catch up on all the events of the past few weeks with her father and mother and to reassure them, repeatedly, that she was not in any kind of trouble. Luckily, she had done enough online research about Quebec to be able to chat about the province, the weather and Canada in general. Victor Peters went on to tell his daughter about the visits he had received while she was away – from the Russian Embassy, from MI5 and from several reporters – and she apologised for being the cause of so much trouble. It was clear that he and his brother were actually quite flattered by the story in the paper about the success of Peters Brothers and how the business had been started by their father, a penniless refugee from Russia in the 1930s.

“And I told them all how proud I was of your successes over the years and how it had just been your friendly nature which had led to all this business with the Russian officer,” he added.

“What did the man from the Russian embassy want?” she enquired.

“He was only interested in discovering where you were so that he could hear your side of the story about meeting the man from the Russian Navy ship. There was nothing I could tell him, so that was the end of that.”

Marina again sensed that there was more to her father’s connections with the Russian Embassy than he was telling her, so she changed the subject, and they went on to talk more about her trip to Canada and various family matters. She also sensed that a man dining alone, two tables away and reading his Sunday papers, was also keeping an eye on them – but he was “one of ours”, she decided, remembering Patricia’s advice. After a couple of hours together and a traditional English Sunday lunch, and with the excuse of jetlag, she said she needed to get some sleep before an important meeting the next day.

Back at the flat, she had a long phone chat with her friend Betty and said she hoped to be able to return to Portsmouth very soon, as soon as the trial of the Russian was over; she was hoping to hear news about this in a day or two.

“I’m assuming this is why I was asked to come back now,” she added – remembering to add that there had been much more of Canada she still wanted to see.

The kitchen in the apartment still had the basic supplies, with fresh milk and juice in the fridge and several frozen meals in the freezer. After a light meal and a good night’s sleep, Marina awoke in time to get breakfast, feeling somewhat apprehensive about the next stage in her saga of unexpected events. Patricia called soon after 8 am and duly arrived at her door at 9 am; they walked together to the MI5 headquarters in the Thameside building.

Tom and two of his colleagues were waiting in a conference room, and they all gave Marina a cheerful welcome back – with a joke about getting her own name back and another about how she had got a suntan in Canada. Then Tom began the meeting.

“A few things have been happening while you were away, Marina, and it was really useful that you were not being hounded by the press – or even the Russians – because it has been a sensitive time for all of us. The bottom line is that there is not going to be a trial and you won’t have to give evidence after all.”

Marina’s eyes widened, and she gave an audible sigh of relief as Tom continued:

“This is all very hush-hush, of course, but in the next couple of days, Nikolai Aldanov will be flown out of the country. We have arranged to do a spy swap with the Russians, exchanging him for one of our diplomats who has been detained in Moscow for nearly two months on a false suspicion of spying. As it turns out, this is an arrangement which suits both sides – not least because the Russians would be very embarrassed if all the details of your online relationship with Aldanov came out in court. I don’t think that would really be any good for us, either – or for you. And we get our man back as well, which will be good news for the Foreign Office. How does that sound?”

“Well, that is all very unexpected,” said Marina, slowly and thoughtfully. “I had no idea that it might work out like this, but I must say it’s a big relief. Obviously, the thought of giving evidence against Nikolai has been on my mind constantly, and I kept thinking about how I would handle any cross-examination because he would be there listening and looking at me. I now realise that I was quite stupid in telling him so much personal stuff. So what will happen next?”

Tom replied, “As soon as we have confirmation that Aldanov is on his way to Moscow, I think you can relax and go back to your parents’ home or back to Portsmouth, as you wish. We have stayed in touch with your people in the Navy, and although they don’t know any of this latest plan, they have said that your job there is waiting for you when you are ready.”

“When the swap is completed, the Foreign Office will put out a statement to explain what has happened and why Aldanov will not face a trial in this country. It is inevitable that when that happens, the press will be after you again. Patricia will arrange for you to have a session with our PR people later today or tomorrow to advise you on how to handle it, what you can say and what you can’t say. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes, of course, and thank you. I understand,” replied Marina, who had tears in her eyes as she left the meeting with Patricia and walked to the staff canteen for a welcome cup of coffee.

Very early on the following morning, a surprised and bewildered Nikolai Aldanov was taken from his prison cell by two armed escorts to a waiting van and was driven out of the city to Northolt military airport, where they all boarded a waiting plane. As it took off into the dawn sky, he had no idea where he was heading. Was it for more questioning? By whom? Even Guantanamo Bay flashed through his mind.

At about the same time in Moscow, Charles Alexander was woken up by the doorbell ringing insistently at his bachelor flat – one of many rented by the British Embassy for diplomats. His visitor, a Russian army officer, said in his best broken English, “Pack your luggage, we are leaving in one hour.”

Charles was also bewildered, assuming that his house arrest was being replaced by a prison cell or even worse. He dressed, found his suitcases and started packing his belongings as quickly as he could. The Russian officer watched to see whether he was taking anything other than his clothes and toiletries. He was told to leave his laptop computer, and his briefcase was searched before he was allowed to take it – fortunately Embassy rules did not allow staff to take any confidential material away from the office. Then, with no formality, he was escorted down to the street and helped into a waiting black vehicle with an armed guard.

A dozen horrific thoughts flashed through his mind as he was driven away at speed through the morning traffic with sirens screaming.

After about 30 minutes, he could see that he was arriving at a well-guarded military establishment and was surprised to see, soon afterwards, that it was an airfield. The vehicle stopped by a Russian air force transport plane. He was hustled on board to a bleak seating area with just four uncomfortable canvas seats and found himself seated between two stern-looking Russians in civilian clothes, who remained incommunicative, apart from grunting a few words to each other from time to time.