“I am obliged to you for that clarification. No more questions, my lady.”

The judge was writing furiously while Fisher remained motionless in the witness box, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Finally she put her pen down and said, “Before you leave the court, Major Fisher, I must tell you that I intend to send a transcript of your evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions, so they can decide if any further legal action should be taken.”

As the major stepped out of the witness box and made his way out of the courtroom, the press corps deserted their benches and followed him out into the corridor like a pack of baying hounds pursuing a wounded fox.

Giles leaned forward, patted Trelford on the back, and said, “Well done, sir. You crucified him.”

“Him, yes, but not her. Thanks to those two carefully worded questions from Sir Edward, Lady Virginia lives to fight another day.”

Chapter 41

41

SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Surely this couldn’t possibly be Anatoly Babakov. Harry stared at the frail skeleton of a man who shuffled into the courtroom and collapsed on to the stool opposite the state prosecutor.

Babakov was dressed in a suit and shirt that hung on him as if he were a coat hanger. They were both several sizes too large for him, and Harry’s first thought was that he must have borrowed them from a stranger that morning. And then he realized that they were Babakov’s own suit and shirt; he just hadn’t worn them since the day he’d been sent to prison, all those years ago. His hair was thinning, and the few strands left were steel gray. His eyes, also gray, had sunk back into their sockets, and his skin was lined and parched, not from the heat of the sun, but from endless hours of exposure to the frozen winds born on the Siberian plains. Babakov looked about seventy, even eighty, although Harry knew they were contemporaries so he couldn’t be much more than fifty.

The state prosecutor rose from his place; the sycophant replaced by the bully. He looked right through Babakov and addressed him with a cold arrogance, so different from the manner afforded to the comrade colonel when he’d been in the witness box.

“Tell the court your name and number,” he demanded.

“Babakov, seven-four-one-six-two, comrade prosecutor.”

“Do not address me in that familiar manner.”

The prisoner bowed his head. “I apologize, sir.”

“Before you were convicted, Babakov, what was your occupation?”

“I was a school teacher in the seventh district of Moscow.”

“How many years did you teach at that school?”

“Thirteen years, sir.”

“And the subject you taught?”

“English.”

“What were your qualifications?”

“I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in Moscow in 1941.”

“So after graduating, your first job was as a school teacher, and you’ve never worked anywhere else?”

“No, sir, I have not.”