Chor Virap, Wikipedia commons
COLD TURKEY
Nik Morton
Turkish-Soviet Armenian border, 14 February,
1976.
Even through the
five layers of artic clothing, Alan Swann felt the insidious cold. The weight
of his pack didn’t help, either. If he’d undergone SAS training, maybe he’d
feel more confident. But he hadn’t. The training at The Fort in Hampshire had
been thorough enough to prepare him for his career as a spy. He much preferred
assignments in the Far East and the tropics, places he’d visited while in the
navy. The trouble was that he spoke Russian fluently, with a Georgian accent,
as well as Malaysian, Indonesian, German and French. As the Operations Officer
said, ‘We have nobody else available with your capabilities. Somehow, Toker is
on the loose and we’ve got to get to him before the Ruskies. Toby Barnes will
be your back-up.’
Enid in Records said
that Dudley Toker was one of the ‘last real gentlemen’ and she really missed
his ‘wonderful smile and chivalrous airs. Not much gallantry about since the
Sixties,’ she had ended when he picked up his papers and maps. What was odd was
that Toker had vanished in Istanbul September last year, presumed dead. Then
two weeks ago, the Comcen got a brief report in special code. From Toker. In
the Armenian city of Yerevan, of all places.
So a hasty mission
was set up. Toby Barnes was ex-SAS and a reliable partner in a crisis. They’d
been on three missions together and tended to know how the other thought and
reacted in extremis. Both operatives had jumped out of the airplane yesterday.
The drop height was 30,000feet so the aircraft would go undetected. They didn’t
open their chutes straight away. Instead, they plummeted to the earth in
free-fall, as they were aiming to get as close as possible to the border to
Armenia. Free-fall was fast, silent and generally accurate: a high altitude,
low opening drop was ideal for insertion into enemy territory.
Swann maintained a
normal delta position and descended at a rate of 120mph, the wind-rush against
his polarised goggles quite deafening. The white expanse of mountains looked
beautiful as he fell towards them. Barnes was more experienced and had opted
for the tracking position and fell at 175mph. When they reached an altitude of
2,500 feet, they finally opened their parachutes. Barnes landed before Swann,
about five hundred yards away. As Swann hit and buckled his legs, his feet
sinking into deep snow, he felt enormous relief. No jarring of the knees this
time, the soft snow cushioned the impact. Swann broke out his snowshoes and
then strode across the virgin snow towards Barnes’s landing place.
They’d been dropped
a mile from the Turkish-Armenian border. Surveillance flights suggested that
there were no Russian sentries out here – it was too cold and inhospitable.
They relied on radar to detect aircraft.
On their left were
the twin volcanic peaks of Mount Ararat, the home of Noah’s Ark, its
5,000-metre height dominating not only the skyline but also the surrounding
snow-clad landscape. This land he stood on, and the mountain, had once been
part of Armenia until the Turks took it in 1915, committing genocide in the
process. Death beckoned now, it seemed.
No matter how
experienced and how professional you are, if luck’s against you, you lose.
Swann found Toby Barnes: as he’d landed, the snow under him had fallen away and
Barnes had tumbled down a deep fissure in the underlying rock. The parachute
shrouds had snagged, entwining round his neck before he could hit the release
and his neck was broken.
Neither carried any
identification. All their equipment was manufactured in the USSR. Swann could
safely leave Barnes where he hung. He offered a quick prayer for his companion
and felt his throat was dry with tension. He sipped a little water then set out
on his mission alone.
***
For the next two
days Swann trekked down the mountain slopes towards the walled monastery of
Chor Virap. The sky was eggshell blue and very clear. As he trudged over the
snow he was aware that he left an obvious trail but there was nothing he could
do about that except pray for a snowfall to obliterate his tracks. He
continually scanned the empty sky for the slightest black speck that might
become a deadly Soviet helicopter on patrol.
While the weak sun
shone, he tried to avoid overheating, opening his parka. At least it wasn’t
windy, so there was no wind-chill to contend with; frostbite was the worst
enemy, followed by hypothermia. It was a case of keeping a balance, maintaining
his core body-heat while he kept moving to his target.
The pointed tower of
the seventeenth century church beckoned, emerging out of the dun-coloured
assembly of buildings and wall on a slight promontory. He waited overnight
under a makeshift canvas shelter and set out as the sun’s first rays shimmered
like a halo around Ararat’s slopes.
***
Tayyip Sezer was a grizzled
bent old man, an Armenian monk. Stocky and at least in his seventies, he seemed
to be both tough and strong as he eased open the heavy wooden door and let
Swann in.
‘We have been
expecting you, sir,’ Tayyip said in broken English, closing the door.
‘How many are here?’
Swann asked.
‘Just five in our
community. Enough to tend the vines.’ He gestured towards the south. Swann had
seen the snow-covered vineyards on a sloping plain beyond the monastery. ‘You
would like some broth, I think?’
‘That would be
welcome,’ Swann said, pulling off his hood and goggles. ‘But I’d like to see
your visitor first.’
Tayyip grinned,
revealing stained crooked teeth. ‘He said whoever came for him would be
impatient. Follow me.’
Across a cobbled
courtyard, up a narrow dark alley and into a small doorway. Tayyip led Swann
down a spiral stone staircase into what appeared to be a candle-lit wine
cellar. ‘I’ll go and get the broth,’ Tayyip said and left him. For an anxious
second he wondered if he was going to be locked up down here. The door stayed
ajar.
‘Sorry it’s so
dark,’ said a refined voice out of a shadowy corner, ‘but my eyes aren’t
accustomed to too much light yet.’
Swann stepped
forward. ‘Toker?’
‘Yes.’ The man
stepped out into the glow of candles. ‘I think I know you – Alan Swann, isn’t
it?’ He held out a hand.
Swann nodded, took
off his mitt and shook hands.
Dudley Toker was
tall and gaunt and wore a straggly greying beard. ‘Sorry about my appearance,
but I’ve been on the run for a couple of months. I’ve been hiding here since I
left Yerevan two weeks ago. That’s where I got my message out to you, thanks to
Andranik Kocharian, a contact of mine...’
Glancing round the
austere stone room, Swann said, ‘Two weeks down here?’
‘Tayyip was anxious
for my safety. We were at college together years back. Two weeks isn’t so bad.
Gregory the Illuminator was captive here for thirteen years.’
Before Swann could
comment Tayyip returned. ‘Here, have this.’ Both men gratefully spooned up the
thick vegetable and mutton broth. ‘I sacrificed a sheep in your honour,’ said
Tayyip.
***
Later that day,
Toker put on the spare clothing that Swann had brought and said his farewells
to the monk Tayyip. Then they walked back towards the border.
Before they’d set
out, Toker had explained that while working in Istanbul he’d learned about
plans to assassinate Chairman Mao Tse-tung by poison. He was captured to find
out how much he knew and whether or not he had informed anyone else. The Soviet
plot was intended to point the finger at the CIA and thus throw China into
Russia’s arms. ‘Just in case I don’t make it, old boy,’ Toker said.
He was weak from
imprisonment, torture and food deprivation. It was a miracle that he’d escaped.
Naturally, Swann wondered if Toker had been brainwashed or fed spurious
information to cause embarrassment. But the man seemed genuine – and very
courageous.
***
At the end of a
gruelling two-day trek they crossed into Turkey and Swann sent his
radio-message. Two hours later, he set a flare and a short while afterwards the
Huey rescue helicopter swooped down towards them. Mission accomplished.
Behind the scenes,
the Foreign Office informed the Soviet and Chinese ambassadors about the plan
Toker had uncovered. Naturally, the Soviet ambassador strenuously disavowed any
plot. Once the Chinese were aware, there was little point in going through with
the assassination attempt. Several of Chairman Mao’s entourage disappeared
mysteriously in March of that year and Chairman Mao died on 9 September, 1976,
apparently of natural causes.
***
This story has
been gleaned from certain manuscripts provided by several secret agents who
served in International Enterprises, an adjunct to the British Intelligence
Service, in the 1970s.
Swann and others
are featured in the full-length adventures of psychic spy Tana Standish,
beginning with The Prague Papers (Crooked Cat Publishing), published as an
e-book on 26 November, 2014.
Please purchase from
'Cold Turkey' was previously published
in The New Coastal Press, 2009.
Copyright Nik
Morton, 2014.
This story was originally written in response to the writers' circle theme 'turkey'...
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