Kara Kush

  Nurhan hadn’t been to Moscow before. As a good Party man he hoped people there were better socialists than his fellow Central Asians, most of whom had worked out a method of living with communism without actually embracing it. The Uzbek traders were chatting in the aircraft’s gangway, lighting up while the No Smoking signs were on, and showing general high spirits.

  He’d always felt that the Uzbeks were soft and stupid. If they’d been prepared to become nativized, more like the Russians, more of them would have been entrusted with high positions and special missions, not just rural jobs; they would have qualified for work such as The Snail had now undoubtedly prepared for Nurhan Aliyev.

  The Uzbeks, Nurhan reflected again, were – like the Georgians, the Azarbaijanis and a dozen other nationalities within the Soviet Union – adapting the system to their own purposes, instead of developing into proper Soviet Men, as they should.

  He winced at the sight of his fellow-countrymen, embroidered skullcaps and turbans awry, bargaining and bartering as they sat in the giant jet, a proud achievement of the Revolution, of which they seemed completely uncaring. Because they had tipped the cabin crew lavishly, they thought they owned the aircraft. The banter, flashing of gold teeth, tabla-playing – it was almost scandalous.

  They treated Aeroflot like a camel-caravan: a way of transporting their smelly bundles of foodstuffs from one place to another. The cabin crew, according to the Uzbeks, had sold all the in-flight meals to ‘speculators’ in Tashkent. His compatriots, however, fed Aliyev on cheese, nuts and raisins.

  2 The Artefacts Department

  Moscow

  Union Capital

  USSR

  MAY 26–30

  ‘Comrade Aliyev? Welcome and warm greetings. I am Halzun.’

  The Snail rose from behind his massive desk, ten times more impressive than Gamidov’s in Tashkent. A huge man, middle-aged, built like an all-in wrestler with a touch of Tartar in the eyelids, Halzun was dressed in a beautifully cut, undoubtedly foreign, suit. He motioned Nurhan to a comfortable chair, and sat beside him on another. Nurhan noticed that his nails were manicured, and the scent which came in wafts from him must have been bought in Paris. The Grecian statue of an athlete in the corner was of museum quality.

  They were sitting in the same first-floor office where two nights before The Snail had burned the midnight oil. Nachalnik – Chief Director – Halzun came directly under the Chairman of the whole KGB organization, a post held for many years by Yuri Andropov, later effective dictator of the Soviet Union and a personal friend of Halzun. Aliyev could almost smell the aroma of power. He recalled the statistics from a briefing, years ago, at the training centre in Tashkent: the KGB’s budget was three billion dollars a year. It had a hundred and ten fulltime officers controlling – worldwide – literally millions of agents of all grades.

  ‘This is a great honour, Comrade Director. I have waited long for this bright day.’

  ‘You have good references, Nurhan Aliyev. Too many of the Central Asian people are content to let the Russians run this great country of ours, this Federation. It is always a pleasure to meet someone who understands the importance of Marxism-Leninism, and who can thus contribute to the onward march of history.’

  Halzun, Nurhan remembered, was an Eastern word. Comrade Snail himself must be one of the examples of successful Nativization: Korenizatsiya, that was the ideal. Individuals chosen from the most promising youth of the ethnic minorities could by this process be admitted – eventually – to ‘equality through harmony’ with the Slavic Soviet population.

  ‘Comrade Aliyev: you have been selected, as you no doubt realize, for a special and highly important mission.’ The Snail gestured to him to take a cup of coffee, an unusual refreshment in modern Russia where the drink is scarcely ever to be seen. He squeezed a quarter lemon into his cup and Nurhan did the same. It tasted foul. Still, coffee was a great luxury. Even people who didn’t like it knew that.

  ‘Your training is complete, and has been kept up-to-date. Your mission will involve going to Pakistan and you will have the cover of an Afghan. This is the best possible infiltration policy at the moment. Many Afghans are leaving their country these days.’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Chief Director.’ An overseas assignment was almost unbelievable. It was almost like hearing that you were off to the moon. And Halzun had said it just like that, as if people went abroad every day of the week. Next it might be America. The very heart of the capitalist-colonialist enemy. A man could really serve the socialist ideal there. Right in the centre of world imperialist plots …

  But why were so many people leaving Afghanistan? Nurhan wondered. Surely they were happy that the Soviet Limited Military Contingent had come to help safeguard their Revolution?

  The Snail seemed to read his thoughts. ‘You understand, Comrade, that the people leaving Afghanistan are only the malcontents, the exploiters and the lackeys of international capitalism. In their dying throes, the members of the ruling circles of Washington and Wall Street excite these people – who may be rich or poor, young or old – and beguile them with the false allure of the façade of their trumpery pretensions.’

  Yes, of course. That was it. The Party knew why such things came about. It was scientific historical determinism.

  ‘There is some fighting, of course, against bandits – and the Americans have made much of it. Naturally they have forgotten how much fighting there was in Vietnam.’

  The Snail continued: ‘So. You will be sent to Afghanistan by military transport. Once in Kabul, however, such is the depth of your cover, you will have to arrange your own legenda – story – and documentation. We cannot trust even the Afghan socialist authorities where documents are concerned. Spies are everywhere. If the Americans, for instance, have infiltrated penetration agents into the Kabul records departments your cover could be exposed. For this reason I want you to keep your identity secret even from the Islamabad Rezident of the KGB. You may contact him – his name is Zakarov – through the Soviet Embassy in Islamabad, the Pakistan capital, only in circumstances of extreme peril or emergency. And remember, the Pakistan security agencies watch our Islamabad Embassy, even our ambassador, Vitaly Smirnov, like hawks. Nearly a hundred and fifty “legals”, agents posing as Soviet diplomats, were expelled by countries around the world in 1983. “Illegals”, on the other hand, are hardly ever caught. But only because we warn them as I am warning you.’

  ‘So I am to be an “illegal”, Comrade Chief Director?’

  ‘Yes, illegal. That is why your repersonalization, your new identity, must be known only to us, here: Department 8, Directorate S. Even if Rezident Zakarov encounters you, under normal circumstances, in Pakistan, he must not know that you are one of our operatives. And you must also keep away from the Afghan Consulate in Islamabad. Mohammed Hakim Sarboland, the Consul-General, is a traitor to socialism. He has defected. The consulate is believed to be suffering from bourgeois pollution.’

  ‘Understood, Comrade Chief Director.’

  ‘Good. Now, Aliyev, you will be working with a Pakistani firm, in Peshawar, established by us and operating for many years in the antiques field.’

  The Snail refilled Nurhan’s cup. ‘Peshawar is very important to us – and to the West. For Pakistan, it is their most vital frontier town, capital of the North-West Frontier Province, full of ethnic Afghans. It is an ancient Afghan city: indeed, it is the ancestral home of the recently deposed Afghan royal family.’

  The Snail frowned. ‘You may remember the first of May, 1960, over twenty years ago. That was the day when the American spy Francis Gary Powers was shot down, in his U-2 reconnaissance plane, over the Soviet Union, near Sverdlovsk. He got ten years. I saw him myself at both Vladimir and Mordovia prisons …’ Halzun sat up, very straight, and looked Aliyev full in the eyes. ‘Of course, Powers did not have to serve his whole sentence. He was detained for less than two years. That was the time it took to arrange his exchange for our Colonel Rudolf Abel, in Berlin. You see, we al
ways look after our own, Aliyev. You will bear that in mind, won’t you?’

  There was no mistaking the message: we look after our own. Nurhan nodded. ‘Yes, Comrade Chief Director.’

  ‘Good. Now, I was talking about Peshawar. It was from the great American spy-base there that Powers set off on his mission. And we arranged for a magnetized screw to be inserted in the mounting of his aircraft compass: that’s how he flew off course, you know. That operation was a triumph of KGB/Peshawar, and there are even better things to come from them.

  ‘Now, as to your own role.’ Halzun stretched, and smiled. ‘Your specialist knowledge of calligraphy will be of value – inscriptions, writings, lettering on coins. There is a good market for Middle Eastern artefacts throughout the world, and these days especially through the USA, Egypt and Switzerland.’

  Aliyev was puzzled. ‘But, Comrade Chief Director, Peshawar is a frontier town of intelligence importance in Pakistan. Is it also a centre of the antiques trade?’

  The Snail smiled. ‘In recent years it has become so. There always was a fair amount of stuff sold there: but now, since the Iran difficulties, and with the influx of Afghan émigrés, some bringing works of art, it has become important. You know, of course, that most of that kind of Islamic material is eventually sold to the Arabs, who have hardly any historical documents or artefacts of their own?’

  ‘Yes, I have heard that, Comrade Chief Director.’

  ‘Very good. You will be given further details, and communications information, by the Special Technical Section. Tomorrow I shall take you to the Arts and Artefacts Department myself, you will find that interesting. I have always found it useful to establish a personal connection with agents, and to make sure that the right feeling is transmitted from the source of direction to all departments with which they will be involved.’

  The following morning, having spent the night in the Dnyepr Hotel, where the KGB maintained suites for its senior operatives, Nurhan was taken by limousine, the driver ignoring all traffic signals, to the director’s office.

  There, after a brief wait, he was joined by The Snail and driven to a large complex of buildings to the north of the city. From outside the place looked like a drab industrial site. Indeed, the sign outside said, in large letters, RED STAR BELT, BUCKLE AND WALLET FACTORY NUMBER 23.

  Once inside, Nurhan was at a loss to know how the place might be described. They were welcomed by the Department’s director and given drinks in a very beautiful office, decorated with works of art. Then, in a lightning tour, Aliyev was shown where perfect replicas of priceless ikons were made; the furnaces and the forges working on bronze and other statuary; the air-conditioned studios where master calligraphers were producing documents and books which had all the appearance of being centuries old.

  ‘Of course, comrades,’ the director was saying, ‘the East Germans have a forgery factory, too, in Prussia. But we pride ourselves that we are better. After all, the German centre is well known in the West – some of its work has been identified by museums and dealers. But we have no record of work produced here ever having been traced back to the Soviet Union.’

  ‘What is the purpose of the activity, Comrade Director?’

  ‘It came about through the marriage of two factors. Originally, State Security concentrated on exports of ordinary items – chairs, toys, chess sets, radios and so on – made in the Corrective Labour colonies. Four million people still work in our camps. Currently these products earn fifteen billion dollars a year from sales to the European Community alone. The capitalist West screams about cheap labour, but is glad to shut its eyes when there is a bargain to be had.

  ‘Plentiful and cheap, sometimes specialized, labour was the first element. Then there is the Third Special Section of the KGB: Illegal Documentation. This is devoted to the manufacture of foreign passports, the forging of identity documents, share certificates, anything for use by our operatives in the West.

  ‘Over and over again our agents in the West reported the great demand there for works of art, initially used by our people as bribes. Put the two together: talent and artworks – and you have a major earner of hard currency. It contributes to the USSR’s budget: and it helps in the funding of the KGB itself.’

  What a brilliant idea! Nurhan was impressed; and he became even more so as he looked at examples of his own specialities. There were Islamic ceramics, and metal or enamelled plates and ewers from the Seljuk, Ottoman, Mogul, Egyptian Fatimite and Abbasid periods. Even to his expert eye they could well have been made in Isfahan, in Kuthaya, in Bokhara, in India.

  ‘But surely some of these can be detected as replicas?’

  The director smiled. ‘Yes, some of them, but the vast majority cannot. We have outlets and individuals to supply what collectors like to call ‘provenance’. As long as a piece has what seems to be a good history, it is seldom given sophisticated scientific tests. Naturally, things sometimes go wrong. Recently, a lot of supposed Islamic artefacts, exhibited in Japan, were found to be false. But, since they were only traced as far as Iran, everyone thinks that they were forged there. In fact, we had infiltrated them into Iran through our southern borders, by way of Azarbaijan. The confusion of the Khomeini regime actually helps in this, along with the fact that the Iranians are desperate for money for their war with Iraq, and ask few questions.’

  ‘So the Iranians co-operate, in spite of the hostility of their regime to the Soviet Union?’

  ‘My dear Comrade Aliyev!’ the director laughed, ‘the Devil himself would co-operate with us, or anyone else, if there were enough money in it. In your specialist field alone – manuscripts – we have developed the market so thoroughly that everyone seems to be imitating us. It is my opinion that our success even stimulated that man in West Germany to forge the so-called Hitler Diaries recently.’

  ‘And the outlets?’

  ‘They vary, from reputable – or greedy – businessmen in Switzerland to unwary dealers in Cairo or Damascus. Our agents in the Islamic and eastern countries have been able to plant many a priceless artefact where its presence alone is thought to be its own provenance.’

  ‘Why,’ the director giggled at the memory, ‘even the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad tried to buy one of our Central Asian pots “from the time of Tamerlane”, which was on offer in India, until we stopped them.

  ‘Metal,’ he continued, ‘is our speciality. As you know, you can’t date it at all by scientific methods, unless you analyse the metal content of an alloy. Then, if it is of a different composition from that traditionally used in a certain place or at a specific time, it becomes suspect. Our solution: we simply imitate the formula of the original alloy – brass, copper, silver, gold. That defies even spectroscopic analysis.’

  ‘What about artefacts still being produced: are they always of poor quality? Much of the stuff we get in our own Bokhara or Samarkand is really appalling.’

  The director rubbed his hands. ‘That is another branch of a fascinating subject. We obtain “Roman” glass from the small workshops of Damascus, and “ancient clay lamps” from the potters of Iraq, which are no different from the real thing. The art has not died out. Nobody can tell the difference. Pottery, ceramics or glass, like metal, can’t be carbon dated.’

  Back in The Snail’s office, Nurhan was handed the report from Rind at KGB/Peshawar, and told to digest it thoroughly. Gradually the whole fantastic plot came alive for him.

  ‘You are to take local charge of this operation, Aliyev,’ The Snail said; ‘and supervise Rind when he meets the Narabian prince. Jamal is to think that he is dealing with Sirdar Akbar’s people.’

  ‘You have captured Akbar’s network, Comrade Chief Director, I can see that,’ said Aliyev; ‘but what about getting the gold out? The transport alone is a major operation even without the security aspect.’

  ‘First,’ said The Snail, ‘we shall take the treasure away to a safe place. Don’t worry about that. Your task is to get the coins to Narabia, in accordance with our instr
uctions. As for Akbar, he is under close supervision. There is no chance that he will be able to communicate with the Arabs.’

  ‘Then why not kill him?’

  ‘Simply because he may be more useful alive. We may need him, to “authenticate” something, perhaps a message to the Arab king. He is to stay alive, if possible, until the transaction is complete. After that, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Understood, Comrade Chief Director. And are there any special instructions about this Peshawar Rezident, Rind?’

  ‘You shall never forget for a moment that, together with you, he possesses knowledge which can make or break this operation. Keep him on the tightest possible leash.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And remember, Nurhan Nureivich, this matter is one which is to be dealt with by this office only, and by me personally. Nobody else, even in the KGB, is to be involved at any stage.’

  ‘Fully understood, Comrade Chief Director.’

  It was now time to put other wheels into operation. As soon as Nurhan Aliyev had bowed his way out of the office, Halzun reached for the telephone. He dialled 206-2511, the Moscow number of the all-powerful Central Committee of the Communist Party of the USSR. When Extension 5-5191 answered, he said, ‘Halzun to Network A: activate Plan Goldenbird.’

  Nurhan spent the next few days studying every aspect of The Snail’s remarkable undertaking, and the many special briefings which would prepare him for his mission. At the Balashika, Department Eight’s training complex fifteen miles east of the Moscow ring road, they seemed to know every detail of life in Pakistan and Afghanistan.