John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

The main worry, during this period – autumn ’87 to autumn ’88 – was that the informers, reporting back to Stepakov’s Banda were obviously only a fraction of those who had been approached.

‘We knew,’ he told them, ‘that the Chushi Pravosudia was now a reality, and we were also aware they had started to spread out of the Soviet Union into the satellite countries of the old Eastern Bloc, even into other Western countries. Our agents caught traces of similar recruiting techniques, and from these we made calculated guesses about the locations and the number of cells. The Scales of Justice was exactly what Winston Churchill once said of the Soviet Union – a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. But Churchill also predicted that there might be a key, and there was a key, but one which, initially, took us only a short way. It led us into the ante-room of the Chushi Pravosudia , and what we heard there made our blood run cold.’

It had happened almost by accident. The interrogation section of an MVD unit had hauled in a language professor who taught at Moscow University. He was suspected of what the authorities loosely termed ‘Black Market Activities’, which meant anything from dealing in illegal currency, to luxury items, right on up to straight and unadulterated espionage.

In the case of Vladimir Lyko, a senior professor of English, it was several illegal currency transactions amounting to some $100,000. There were no doubts, the evidence was there, the money had been traced, and one of the professor’s pupils had informed.

‘It was January 1989.’ Stepakov placed his large rear end against the back of a chair, as if settling to tell a good tale. ‘They got me out of bed at one in the morning, and I went straight to Lefortovo. The MVD had a direct instruction to contact me if they ever came across any evidence leading us to Chushi Pravosudia . The officer in charge of the interrogation told me that Lyko had things he would talk about. He wanted to do a deal, and, as you must know, this is strictly against our operational practice.’ He gave a big smile. ‘We never do deals. Except when we will gain much. From tiny acorns . . . Well, Lyko was a very small acorn and he has grown into a very large tree.’

At the airport Bond had considered that the Russian would be a good story-teller. Now, with his mobile clown’s face and a knack of graphic description, Stepakov told them about his first meeting with the professor. Bond had been right. He did all the voices.

Lefortovo is a grim, haunted place at the best of times. In winter it is truly bleak. They had Vladimir Lyko in a small interrogation room. Bare and unfriendly, with a table and two chairs bolted to a hard stone floor. The prisoner sat with his back to a wall, and directly behind him, high in the stone, was a small circular opening. In the old days victims had been shot from that tiny aperture, usually just as the interrogating officer took their signed statement from the table and moved to one side.

Stepakov wore his heavy greatcoat for there was ice on the walls. Lyko looked, rightly, terrified. He was a typical academic from the university. A fussy little man, about forty years of age, with dusty short hair and the thin face of a zealot, in which the once fervent eyes now reflected his terror. His hands shook as Stepakov offered him a cigarette and the KGB man had to hold his wrist to steady him as he lit the smoke for him.

‘Well, Vladi, you’re in a fine pickle now. They tell me over one hundred thousand dollars cash. This is a great deal of money. Enough money to give you one year for every ten dollars. One year for ten in the Gulag. You think this is cold? Wait till you get to one of the camps. This’ll feel like a summer vacation.’ He paused, looking at the dismal, cringing figure who saw himself, at best, as one of the living dead.

‘The boys here will be back. They’ll take your statement, your confession, and you’ll sign it. Then you’ll be up in front of a tribunal, and away you’ll go. Someone who’s had it soft, like yourself, feels bad about that, and the shame will stretch into the very heart of your family.’

For the first time, Lyko spoke, ‘I can provide information.’

‘Good. Provide it. If the information is fact, then you could get fifty years knocked off your sentence.’

‘I am one of the . . .’ he stopped, as though making a huge effort. ‘One of the Chushi Pravosudia .’

‘Really?’ Stepakov evinced surprise. ‘Who are these Chushi Pravosudia ? Can’t say I know them.’

‘You know very well what I’m talking about. I can give you a lot of help. Details.’ For a second, Lyko seemed to have tapped a source of inner strength. That was good. This pitiful apology for a human being had found some self-respect.

‘You can give me names?’

‘Names are difficult. But I can give operational procedures; organisation; methods and, best of all, what Chushi Pravosudia is really doing.’

‘Go on then. Talk.’

Little dusty-haired Lyko shook his head. The moment of courage seemed to have put new life into him. ‘I’ll talk to you, even work with you, only if charges are dropped.’

Stepakov slowly got up and began to walk towards the door. Then he turned back. ‘If you have good information about Chushi Pravosudia , you’ll give it to the interrogators here and they will pass it on to me. They’re very good at that kind of thing.’

Lyko lifted his head. He actually smiled. ‘I know,’ he said quietly, his voice shaking, fear just below the surface. ‘The problem is that the kind of information I have is useless without me. Information by itself cannot help you. For instance, do you know what Chushi Pravosudia really is?’

Stepakov stood, just looking at him for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, ‘Tell me.’

Vladimir Lyko smiled and motioned for another cigarette. ‘Now tell me,’ Stepakov repeated after he had sat down again and lighted cigarettes for both of them.

The professor gave a little mirthless laugh. ‘ Chushi Pravosudia is an organisation up for hire. They are terrorist mercenaries, with no political aims, no morals, no set ideology. If the Islamic Jihad require assistance, then they will provide it, for money; if the German Red Army Faction ask for help with a particular target, Chushi Pravosudia will use its people in Germany, strictly for cash; any terrorist organisation in the entire world can look for logistic support, sometimes active field support, from Chushi Pravosudia . The Scales of Justice is their joke. There is no justice from them. They’re in the game for the money, and what better place to use as a base than the USSR? The cradle of Communism. They have made it into a cradle of capitalist horror.’

Back in the present, in the hygienic room below the dacha, Boris Ivanovich Stepakov looked at Bond, Natkowitz, Stephanie Adoré, Henri Rampart and the three assistants. He arched his eyebrows, shrugged, and said – ‘The terrible thing is, he was telling the truth. That is exactly what Chushi Pravosudia were doing, are doing, and will go on doing if we don’t stop them.’

The Russian continued to talk, filling in the gaps, putting things into perspective. Names and locations were difficult because the Scales of Justice were, by this time, expert in the art of concealment. Their work was always done through numerous cut-outs. The main cells merely planned. The plans were put into operation by paid couriers, or men who worked like agent handlers. One subject possibly led to another, but, as you went down the line, so the chain of command split into fragments, tributaries, dead ends. Just as they had done their initial recruiting, so they ran operations, terrorist strikes, disruption, assassination and every conceivable kind of attack by covering tracks.