Deception

THIRTEEN

One kilometre north-east of Schwedt, a small industrial town on the German side of the border with Poland, a small white pickup truck churned along a narrow, isolated track riddled with muddy puddles and wallows. Darkness was coming in fast and the driver’s face was beaded with perspiration as he fought to control the steering wheel. He was praying that he didn’t get a puncture. Running on sidelights only, which were barely enough to show the banks on either side or the potholes in the surface, he was constantly having to wrench the vehicle back on course as he felt the bumper brushing against the tangle of overgrown grass and bushes bordering the track.

‘Come on, come on. .!’ he swore softly, as the truck failed to respond to his foot pounding on the accelerator. The worn-out engine was pinking in protest at the half tank of cheap petrol he’d been sold with the vehicle, a last-ditch attempt to stay clear of bus or train routes, and the noisy heater clamped under the dashboard sounded laboured and tinny. With the approaching night came a curtain of rain sweeping across the countryside towards him, and he was shivering with a mixture of cold and despair that not even the ancient camouflage jacket he’d bought in a market two days ago could stave off.

He checked the wing mirror, but the bouncing vehicle made seeing anything behind him impossible. He thought he’d caught a glimmer of lights back there earlier, but had seen nothing since. Maybe he’d lost the pursuers he knew were on his tail. Or maybe he’d been imagining it, a result of exhaustion. He flicked on the yellow interior light and risked a quick glance at the folded map pinned to the dashboard. Schwedt was behind him, and if he could believe the single dotted line showing just west of the town, the track he was on led towards the Polish border and the river Oder. He was counting on finding a way of crossing the water when he got closer, and avoiding the road where there would certainly be border controls. The pickup was barely roadworthy and would not stand close scrutiny if a bored official decided to give him the once-over.

He checked the mirror again and pulled to a halt alongside a clump of pine trees silhouetted against the sky. He climbed out and watched the track behind him for a moment, straining to hear the sound of a vehicle engine. But there was nothing. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he then went round to the rear of the vehicle. Two sharp kicks and the tail and brake lights were smashed. If anyone was following him, they’d have nothing to fasten on. If, on the other hand, he ran into a border patrol or the police, he was already in deep enough trouble and broken lights would be the least of his problems.

He unzipped his pants and relieved himself against a rear tyre, eyes on the track behind him. It would be just his luck, he thought wryly, to be caught taking a piss. A couple of guys in his unit in Helmand had done the same, to their cost; one got taken out by a sniper, the other had stepped on an IED hidden behind the bush he was watering. Bastard insurgents.

When he was finished, he zipped up and walked away from the pickup, scanning the darkened fields and woodland for signs of life. Other than the up-glow of lights from Schwedt, and the furtive scurry of a fox or rabbit in the undergrowth, he was certain there was nobody about. He sniffed the air, catching a trace of pine sap and a waft of brackish water from the river. Then, as he stepped round to climb back behind the wheel, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead, overcome by a wash of despair.

A man was standing by the front wing, the thin glow of the sidelights reflecting off the gun in his hand.