Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  “Colonel, could you tell the court when you first became aware of the defendant?”

  “Yes, comrade prosecutor. He came to Moscow some five years ago as the British representative at an international book conference and gave the keynote speech on the opening day.”

  “Did you hear that speech?”

  “Yes I did, and it became clear to me that he believed the traitor Babakov had worked for many years inside the Kremlin and was a close associate of the late Comrade Stalin. In fact, so persuasive was his argument that by the time he sat down almost everyone else in that hall also believed it.”

  “Did you attempt to make contact with the defendant while he was in Moscow?”

  “No, because he was traveling back to England the following day, and I confess I assumed that, like so many campaigns the West gets worked up about, it would only be a matter of time before another one came along to occupy their impatient minds.”

  “But this particular cause didn’t go away.”

  “No, the defendant had clearly convinced himself that Babakov was telling the truth, and that if his book could be published the whole world would also believe him. Earlier this year, the defendant traveled to the United States on a luxury liner, owned by his wife’s family. On arrival in New York, he visited a well-known publisher, no doubt to discuss the publication of Babakov’s book, because the following day he boarded a train to Pittsburgh with the sole purpose of meeting the defector Yelena Babakov, the wife of the traitor. I have in this folder several photographs taken during this visit to Pittsburgh by one of our agents.”

  Marinkin handed the folder to the judge’s clerk, who passed it to the tribunal chairman. The three judges studied the photographs for some time before the chairman asked, “How much time did the prisoner spend with Mrs. Babakov?”

  “Just over four hours. He then returned to New York. The following morning he visited his publisher once again, and later that day boarded the ship owned by his wife’s family and traveled back to England.”

  “Once he had returned, did you continue to maintain a high level of surveillance?”

  “Yes. One of our senior operatives monitored his daily activities and reported that the defendant had enrolled for a Russian language course at Bristol University, not far from where he lives. One of my agents signed up for the same course and reported that the accused was a conscientious student, who studied far harder than any of his classmates. Shortly after he’d completed the course, he flew to Leningrad, just weeks before his visa expired.”

  “Why didn’t you arrest him immediately he arrived in Leningrad and put him on the next plane back to London?”

  “Because I wanted to discover if he had any associates in Russia.”

  “And did he?”

  “No, the man’s a loner, a romantic, someone who would have been more at home in ancient times when, like Jason, he would have gone in search of the Golden Fleece, which, for him in the twentieth century, was Babakov’s equally fictitious story.”

  “And was he successful?”

  “Yes, he was. Babakov’s wife had evidently told him exactly where he could find a copy of her husband’s book, because no sooner had he arrived in Leningrad than he took a taxi to the Pushkin antiquarian bookshop on the outskirts of the city. It took him only a few minutes to locate the book he was looking for, which was concealed inside the dust jacket of another title, and must have been exactly where Mrs. Babakov had told him it would be. He paid for the book and two others, then instructed the waiting taxi to take him back to the airport.”

  “Where you arrested him?”

  “Yes, but not immediately, because I wanted to see if he had an accomplice at the airport he would try to pass the book on to. But he simply bought a ticket for the same plane he had flown in on. We arrested him just before he attempted to board it.”

  “Where is the book now?” asked the president of the tribunal.

  “It has been destroyed, comrade chairman, but I have retained the title page for the records. It may interest the court to know that it appears to have been a printer’s proof, so it was possibly the last copy in existence.”

  “When you arrested the defendant, how did he react?” asked the prosecutor.

  “He clearly didn’t realize the severity of his crime because he kept asking on what charge he was being held.”

  “Did you interview the taxi driver?” asked the prosecutor, “and the elderly woman who worked in the bookshop, to see if they were in league with the defendant?”

  “Yes, I did. Both turned out to be card-carrying members of the party, and it quickly became clear they had no earlier association with the defendant. I released them after a short interview, as I felt the less they knew about my inquiries the better.”

  “Thank you, colonel. I have no more questions,” said the prosecutor, “but my colleague may have,” he added before he sat down.

  The chairman glanced in the direction of the young man who was seated at the other end of the bench. He rose and looked at the senior judge, but said nothing.

  “Do you wish to cross-examine this witness?” she asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, comrade chairman. I am quite content with the evidence presented by the chief of police.” He sat back down.

  The chairman turned her attention back to the colonel.

  “I congratulate you, comrade colonel, on a thoroughly comprehensive piece of detective work,” she said. “But is there anything you would like to add that might assist us to make our judgement?”

  “Yes, comrade. I am convinced that the prisoner is merely a naïve and gullible idealist, who believes that Babakov actually worked in the Kremlin. In my opinion he should be given one more chance to sign a confession. If he does so, I will personally supervise his deportation.”

  “Thank you, colonel, I will bear that in mind. Now you may return to your important duties.”

  The colonel saluted. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced briefly at Harry. A moment later he was gone.

  That was the moment Harry realized that this was a show trial with a difference. Its sole purpose was to convince him that Anatoly Babakov was a fraud, so that he would return to England and tell everyone the truth, as it was being played out in that courtroom. But the carefully orchestrated charade still required him to sign a confession, and he wondered just how far they would go to achieve their aim.

  “Comrade prosecutor,” said the tribunal chairman, “you may now call your next witness.”

  “Thank you, comrade chair,” he said, before rising once again. “I call Anatoly Babakov.”

  40

  GILES SAT DOWN to breakfast and began to go through the morning papers. He was on his second cup of coffee by the time Sebastian joined him.

  “How do they read?”

  “I think a theatre critic would describe the opening day as having mixed reviews.”

  “Then perhaps it’s a good thing,” said Seb, “that the judge instructed the jury not to read them.”

  “They’ll read them, believe me,” said Giles. “Especially after the judge refused to let Trelford tell them what my mother had to say about Virginia in her will. Pour yourself a coffee and I’ll read it to you.” Giles picked up the Daily Mail and waited for Seb to return to the breakfast table before he put his glasses back on and began to read. “‘The remainder of my estate is to be left to my beloved daughters Emma and Grace to dispose of as they see fit, with the exception of my Siamese cat, Cleopatra, who I leave to Lady Virginia Fenwick, because they have so much in common. They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them, including my besotted son, who I can only pray will break from the spell she has cast on him before it is too late.’”

  “Bravo,” said Seb when his uncle had put the paper down. “What a formidable lady. We could have done with her in the witness box. But what about the broadsheets, how are they reporting it?”

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