Beyond Recall

Chapter 17

The officer spun and Gaz had the pistol out from his belt. Cocked it.

The kids ran towards him. He waved them back, was ignored.

Had he been on his own he would have moved faster and with more attention to his security. But he escorted a prisoner who had his wrists pinioned at the back. The major could not walk easily and often stumbled, and there were times that he might have pitched forward and gone down if Gaz had not grabbed him and held him upright. He had twice found his own footprints, and knew that he took the best route as he headed for the dead tree. It surprised him that the prisoner did not complain about his treatment, did not try to flop down and refuse to go another step. It seemed to Gaz that the major had weighed up his situation, had decided that the fence was as good an option as any. Would Gaz have shot him? Possible he would have aimed and pulled the trigger if he had been kicked, a blow in the groin, or if the major had used his forehead on Gaz’s nose – and then had run. Might have fired then. If the prisoner had collapsed, could have claimed he’d turned his ankle, would he have put the barrel tip against the back of his skull, and squeezed? How he had won the prisoner’s cooperation was beyond fathoming. The man had his head down and concentrated on the ground ahead, on the next step and where he could keep his balance. They were less than an hour from the border fence and making good progress, and still there were no sirens, no tracker dogs, no helicopters. The kids were a diversion and an irritation, a further drain on Gaz’s focus. He was tired beyond exhaustion, hungry and thirsty.

He had not heard them, should have done.

“You stay back. Go back. Not your place and not your time.”

Nothing from Timofey, but the girl laughed in his face. He had spun, had the weapon raised and realised the lunacy of standing in the centre of a wilderness and aiming a loaded Makarov pistol.

“You have no business at the fence. I don’t take you with me. You did what was asked of you, and that finishes your involvement.”

Maybe Gaz should have threatened them with a show of ruthless and uncompromising temperament… Some of the Hereford people would have frightened the knickers off her and made him flinch, but they were the men who would not have questioned the Knacker instruction. Gaz, I trusted you, and a host of people have that faith in you. Find a way, always a resourceful soldier, weren’t you? Enough of them would have done. He had not, and had a prisoner and would receive little gratitude from the big cats when he handed him over.

“The last time I tell you – stay back. Get under cover. Don’t follow.”

Did not know what else to say. He could not shoot them, had used both of them and she still had the same damn grin playing at her mouth, taunting and teasing. The boy did not break stride.

“At the border, I don’t know what I’ll find. Patrols, maybe. Shoot to kill. Go back.”

Gaz almost believed what he said. Guns, danger, troops, directed at all of them. Would have bottled it before, now showed it.

She did not answer but Timofey did. “Be good to see, the border, see into Norway. Never been there, never done that.”

“It is not a theme park. Stay back and do not interfere.”

“Will be a show. Something to remember you.”

He did not know how he’d lose them. Madness, as if he led an asylum party, and…

“May I speak, Corporal?”

“To say what?”

He was Lavrenti Volkov, he held combat decorations awarded for service in Syria, he was a man identified for fast-track promotion, he had performed tasks inside the Federal’nya sluzhba bezopasnosti that had advanced his own career, and had delivered influential men to tongue-tied impotence. He was the son of a prestige-laden senior officer – and had been broken by the civility of a soldier, a mere corporal, who was a witness. Arrogance was stripped off him. Might as well have walked as naked as the girl had been but without fun on his face, only abject apology. He looked ahead, kept up a good stride, spoke firmly.

“I deny nothing. I was there. I killed – old people, women, children – killed them or helped to kill them, did not prevent the killing of them. There was a frenzy in the air. It consumed me, and when my face was scratched and blood drawn I lost control of my actions. That is not an excuse, but a fact. I veered to the edge of ‘evil’, became a creature beyond the norms of behaviour. Before that day I took delight in humiliating men through the uniform I wore and the power given me. Took pleasure from inflicting fear, and could grade it so that a man in front of my desk might be only discomfited, but might also piss his pants. That, Corporal, is power, and it is enjoyable. It is like a drug. At the village it was different to the Lubyanka… I called it ‘evil’. I have been punished, not as I ought to have been, but still punished. I have not had a girl since I came back from Syria, only a whore and rarely. I do not sleep at night whether it is the Arctic winter or the Arctic summer, and pills are useless. I am destroyed, Corporal. Because of what I did, I should face justice for what happened in the village, and face retribution. I understand the punishment that should be presented to me. I sincerely regret what I did… that is what I believed important to tell you.”

“I am not a priest. I cannot absolve you.”

“Am not asking.”

“Nor offer any level of mercy.”

“Not requested.”

“I do not debate what you did. They wanted you killed, my people. They wanted your murder, chopped down in a street in Murmansk, broadcast in those small enclaves of Syria where the government does not have support. Dead, you were a good image to demonstrate the limits of your country’s power. Your corpse would be a fine symbol, an encouragement to keep fighting. Because of what you have said, I do not think the better of you, or the worse of you. I was a witness and am scarred. We keep walking, and I will shoot if you try to break away, shoot to kill.”

Hard going and difficult ground, and the kids were behind them and he heard the boy’s voice and the girl’s laughter. They were on open ground and it was hard for him with his arms pinioned. He thought he left behind him an old world: hatred and contempt would fall on him. He slipped, fell, and was tugged up without ceremony. He had not meant to gain sympathy, but had earned none. He regained his balance, was shoved forward. He did not know why they were not tracked, and why the helicopters were not up, nor the drones, did not know why he was not hunted… They approached a dead tree, wide branches that were grotesque and ill-shaped, where crows perched, gazing down on them – and the girl laughed again, like it was a school jaunt.

Delta Alpha Sierra, the seventeenth hour

They walked in darkness. Gaz had draped her arm over his shoulder and she clung to his Bergen. The village was far behind them. The cloud had broken. Stars shone, and a miserable moon threw slight light. It was a skill Gaz had, to navigate across open and featureless ground.

Around them were the goats from her herd and her dogs. Gaz had offered her the biscuits from the bottom of his Bergen but she had refused. The dogs had wolfed them down. There were enough small indents in the ground for rainwater to have gathered and the animals – both the goats and the dogs – could drink. He did not talk because he had no idea what would have been appropriate to say. She had been gang raped and the price she’d paid was his life.

They were briefed on Russian military tactics, and command structures in Syria’s theatre, and were told about living conditions for their troops, had a fair impression of life for their air force personnel and the special forces units. None of their own intelligence people had turned up at the Forward Operating Base with thumbnail sketches of existence inside a camp of IRGC militia, how it would be to board and lodge with the Iranians… and after any fire-fight the chance was that the Russians would hightail it to a place of their own and do their report.

… and he’d be telling his story to their intelligence people and main force unit officers. ‘We got ourselves involved in a confused small-arms contact. There was an attack on our garrison camp from terrorists; they were beaten off. This morning the local IRGC organised a counter-strike at company level. I did not feel it necessary to involve myself in the operation and they seemed competent in what they intended. The night attack came from a terrorist-controlled village, Deir al-Siyarqi, just off the main highway crossing our sector. They met resistance there, a full-scale fire-fight developed. Passions ran high and there may have been civilian casualties when the village was finally taken. I cannot rule out the possibility of reprisals against non-combatants, but I would stress the Iranians believed the community to be a nest of anti-government dissent. I and my escort stayed back because there was no reason for us to be directly involved. It took longer to complete than expected because, in very poor weather conditions, there was continuing sniper fire. When the enemy combatants had been neutralised, the fatalities among the villagers were given a decent burial by the Iranians. I saw little of what happened in the village when it was taken. There may have been excesses but I did not witness them. In my opinion, the Iranian allies acted correctly. Were there captives who our interrogators should get a run with? Unfortunately that is not possible. There were no captives. Were there terrorists who escaped from the village before it fell, subsequent witnesses? I think not. My conclusion – the highway is safer for travel by our forces now that this village has been rendered harmless.’ An easy story to tell. The colleagues, professional soldiers, who had extracted it might have noticed cheeks drained of colour, a stammer, or obviously rehearsed sentences, might have seen a tremor in the officer’s hands. He would not have been challenged, contradicted. An old adage of military life: only the losers get hauled in for crimes in the field. He could imagine that but did not know what he should say to her.

She stopped. The goats’ cries had reached a crescendo.

He saw her sense of duty. She squatted. The animals pressed close to her, could no longer be ignored. She reached out, took the teats on the udders of the goats, and did the milking movement she would have been familiar with. Worked a line as milk was jetted out and splashed on to the dirt below. Went on, looked after them, took time for it. He did not interrupt her, stayed close to her until she was finished, had a hand ready in case she toppled. He tried once to put an arm around her shoulder as she relieved the goats, give her comfort, but she flinched and then shook it away. At the end she turned, looked up, and a gleam of the moon’s light settled on her face.

She said, “I had to survive because there must be a witness who lives.”

They moved off again in the dark and the goats were quieter and the dogs shepherded them. He sent the text, gave an estimate of his arrival.

Gaz’s mind contorted with images of the Russian officer, of his face, his actions, of his guilt. He did not know what to say but made his pledge silently, and saw the officer and did not dare to lose sight of him. Who would listen? Likely no one, and likely no one would care. He draped her arm across his shoulder and her hand gripped the Bergen and they walked. Who would ever give him a chance to be that witness? No one would.

“You have the better angle on him,” Boris said.

“I think I might have,” Mikki said.

They were both aiming. Boris was on one knee and had a low granite slab to rest his elbows on. Mikki was on the ground and had found heather and low scrub and was comfortable. At the range they had chosen, some 175 metres – as veterans of combat – both would say, in estimating range and the deflection that wind might make to the passage in the air of a bullet, even with assault rifles, it was a simple shot.

Mikki said, “At the next stride he takes.”

Boris said, “Best for you, better than me – go, drop him.”

They had open sights on their rifles. Those issued to the FSB, through the armoury on Prospekt, did not have telescopic attachments as the front line infantry would have had. They fired on the rare enough occasions that the weapons were issued, over open sights. Mikki had the V and the needle together and calculated the distance and the lever at the positioning for the range; in the distance beyond the sights was the blurred shape of the man’s body. The target was to the left of the officer and a half pace behind. Easy for them both, at that distance, to note that the officer had his wrists tied with a supermarket plastic bag, then he rocked and was unstable. They both knew that reward and praise would follow the successful rescue of the major, that rewards and praise would come, and they would be paid off and generously. Mikki had the necessary elevation. Would have fired, could have, but the officer slipped sideways, only a quarter of a metre, but the target was immediately reduced. The kids – scum brats, criminals, should have been beaten to pulp – trailed by at least fifty metres, outside the loop of his vision. Did not matter, would be dealt with in the aftermath. He had slowed his breathing, readied himself.

“Fuck, but the next time.”

“Do it, do him the next time – heh, if you fucking miss…”

“No chance.”

“Don’t miss.”

“Did I ever?” Mikki murmured.

“When we did Jalalabad, you missed at…”

“Shut the fuck up.” But Mikki had to smile. The target on that day, thirty-three years ago, had been a big hairy bastard with his turban flying behind him having been loosened in a charge over the stones in a dried river-bed. Their detachment had been rushed in to save the lives of a two-man crew from a downed helicopter gunship. Since that day, the target had always been the ‘big hairy bastard’ and Mikki had been on ‘single shot’ mode and not ‘automatic’, had missed and would have been dead but for the big hairy bastard’s own weapon choosing that moment to malfunction. Boris had put him down… A hell of a fucking good story and part of the lore that bound the two of them. Beside him was the granite rock, its surface coated in a froth of pale lichen and on it were Boris’s elbows, but Mikki had the better angle, and it improved for the few seconds of delay. Their man was ahead, the bodies separated, and the aim was clear except for the blurred waving of tall grass.

He squeezed. And saw… Did not know what he saw. A movement among the dwarf birches ahead of the major and the man held in the gap of the V, a definite movement… Squeezed further. Smelt the fumes from the breech, and saw the flash at the barrel tip below the needle, felt the impact of the butt against his shoulder, lost hearing, and saw the target drop, and could have cheered. Had not known the elation of a hit for close on fifteen fucking years, riding the armoured jeeps on the roads near Chechnya’s border with Dagestan.

Like he had been hit with a sledgehammer.

Had been in mid-stride, close to his prisoner, one arm reaching forward to steady him and the other an angle to improve his own balance, and stones under their boots as they crossed a shallow pool and concentrating on his next footstep, and hearing the kids chatter behind and without the energy to shut them down.

The officer froze.

Gaz was draped over stone and stubbed bush growth and some of its flowers were in his mouth. He was aware the water in which his chin rested, was opaque, first pink and then reddening. Something they’d talked about – guys in the regiment. What was it like to be shot? How did it feel? Only Chalkie knew because he had taken a bullet in the upper thigh in some arsehole corner of southern Iraq, and the skills on the casevac airlift had been sufficient to save him from fatal blood loss, and he was fine now: never joined the talk, would say he hoped they’d never find out. After the blow of the sledgehammer had been the fall and no time to break it. Gone down with the impact of the proverbial potato sack. A numbness and a coldness spreading, and not knowing for two or three moments whether he was actually alive… If he’d survived the bullet, was he going to stay alive? Did not know where ‘Bomber’ Harris was, and his big Chinook, where Sam and Arnie were and any of the rest of the gang who did fast first aiding to get him through the Golden Hour when wounded men needed serious medical intervention.

The pool by his face was deep red, colour of the Galway Bay rose that Bobby and Betty Riley grew in the front garden of the farmhouse, and it had thrived from the undiluted horse shit piled over it, and been dug up to go to Criccieth with them… And he was already rambling in his thoughts, and more of the red was on the foliage and he reckoned he was bleeding badly.

He looked up. Could move his head but his upper body seemed crushed. The pain had not started… Gaz knew… that first would be the numbness, and the pain would come later. He was beginning to think about detritus, how much of his jacket had been drilled into the wound, and how big a piece of his T-shirt was in there, plastered against the sides of the bullet’s passage. Did not know yet what had been hit, if an organ had been damaged. Had not tried to move his legs, might have paralysis, what they all dreaded, whether a part of his spine had taken the impact of the bullet and fractured… Talk was that a trooper was better off shoving the barrel of his weapon into his mouth and fiddling for the trigger if his future was a wheelchair. He thought the wound was in his upper chest, right side, and below the armpit… and could not know whether the bullet had broken up, splintered, bits buried in many directions, and if there was an exit wound and whether it had stayed whole.

The officer was beside him, flat down on his stomach. Gaz looked up and past him, and saw them.

Like his life had travelled fast. A fistful of seconds since the hit. Had the training that located where a shot had been fired from. Saw them clearly, one man knelt, and he could see the head and shoulders of a second. They both had an aim, and he reckoned both were about to fire… and recognised one face but was too tired, too screwed, to think from where.

Both about to fire, about to pitch Gaz off his perch. Both barrels had him marked out, were lined on him. Pretty much point-blank, fairground shooting for a cuddly toy, pretty much Gaz’s last moments. He bit his lip, felt the pain, bit hard. And heard the shot.

The bullet struck the granite rock underneath the barrel of his assault rifle, then ricocheted. It cleared Boris’ head, but did a glancing contact with the rock and then sang like a plucked harp-string as it careered away. Mikki did not know, nor Boris, where it had come from. Under fire, the overriding priority was to learn the source of the shot, the position of the gunman, then to take better cover.

“Was that lucky? Or was that aimed?”

A croaked answer. “How can I fucking know? It went under the barrel, had less than a hand span to get through. I don’t know.”

Neither moved. Neither would stand up and look around to try to get a line on a rifleman’s position. To find out whether the shot were luck or skill was to make him fire again.

“You scared, Boris?”

“Not feeling great – that good enough?”

“We going to lie here, have a sleep?”

“Never did, never will.”

“He’s starting to wriggle.”

“Then he’s mine, and cover me good.”

Mikki had seen his target go down and had reckoned the shot good enough to kill but could not deny that the target moved, a hand had gone up and then sank. But they were confused: it seemed as if the officer was sitting up and looking around and then was assessing the state of his captor. Should have been on the move. Pushing up and running, staggering, but putting in distance. He thought the officer was about to get close to his target. An eye behind the V and the needle and a view of the target’s head, not a difficult shot for him, except that he was shivering and the weapon floated in his hands and his breathing was crap, and his finger slid from the outer lip of the guard and found the trigger itself. Would not hurry, would do it in his own time, would bank on the incoming round, from whoever and wherever as a lucky shot, not aimed, and… it whipped in his ears.

He was deafened. The lichen was blown free, thrown up and then floated down. Fragments of the granite stone had splintered, and had spattered on his face.

This second shot was over his barrel. Boris thought the contact with the rock had been no more than fifty centimetres from his eyes. The bullet wailed after the initial impact and was gone. Not luck. Not a rifleman but a marksman. Not an infantryman but a sniper.

Boris took his hands off the assault rifle and lifted his head clear of the sights. Dogs would roll on their backs, put a tail over their bits, raise all four legs and look away: dogs did good submission. He would not have done that in Afghanistan, nor in Chechnya. This was the territory of the Russian Federation. In the places where he had fought in the military units of FSB, he would happily have gone to his grave rather than permit himself to be captured: in Afghanistan the men would have done it with blunt knives. In Chechnya it would have been the women, the Black Widows and the Allah’s Angels, using blunter knives to mutilate them.

“Mikki, you are my friend, and you trust me.”

“I am your friend and trust you.”

“We get the fuck out.”

“Get the fuck out, get clear. Let him show himself.”

“The message I get, leave the firepower. No threat offered.”

“Leave the guns, back off. You pray, Boris?”

“Not often enough.”

Both pairs of arms were raised. A good display of surrender. Mikki would have said that the accuracy of the shooting meant that a sniper’s rifle was trained on them – the Dragunov carried a powerful telescopic sight. Probably the sight could identify the hairs on his face, those sticking out from his nostrils. He would not play games with the guy. Both of them were standing. One rifle was on the granite stone, the other was leaning on the rock, close to where the second bullet had impacted. Mikki picked up their rucksack. Hands still high they started to walk away. Did not look behind but Mikki was able to slip a glance out to the side, to where they had left the weapons.

“Don’t question me, just do as I say.” He kept his voice low. “We are in a bad place.”

“What are you saying?”

“Saying that we run – don’t argue. Just fucking run.”

“Why?”

“Seen a bear,” Mikki hissed. “Full grown, half again, and coming behind us.”

“What? A bear? What… ?”

And Boris turned and broke ranks. The biggest fucking bear he had ever seen. Bigger than anything in a circus, or stuffed and displayed in a bar. It came to the rock of granite they had used and sniffed at the weapons and would have noted the chemicals from the discharge, and then it came after them. The bear did not run, but loped, covering ground fast. They ran, then stopped, both heaving breath into their lungs. The bear stopped, about 100 metres back from them. Mikki thought that firing a pistol, the one at the bottom of the rucksack, would only have stopped the beast if the barrel were put hard up against its ear, or down its throat. He saw that it was club-footed and reckoned a swing of that old leathered stump would break his neck, and that a slash of the claws on the good foot would slice him like he was ready for barbecuing.

The bear had small eyes for the size of its head. Bright and cruel. They ran again. Then collapsed. They were at the tree line. One tree stood higher than the rest, petrified. Mikki thought it was worse than before because he could no longer see the bear. The trees were dense, heavy in summer leaf, and scrub grew underneath the branches. They could not see it but heard it.

“Do you understand anything?”

“I understand fuck-all. What do I want? I want away… I never been so scared, not anywhere. He let us go, the sniper. Might have said we are useless, not worth two rounds more. Useless…”

Far behind them, gone from sight, were their target and their officer, forgotten. It surprised them that the animal seemed happy now to make a cumbersome noise as it went unseen, near to them. They threw grenades, pepper spray and flash-and-bangs. The beast seemed close to them but was hidden in the trees.

“If you want me to help you.”

The shock and cold had settled on Gaz and the pool by his face had reddened further. The officer shoved his hands, bound at the wrist, towards Gaz.

“Why would you?”

The officer sounded irritated. “If you want to talk about it, you sitting in a chair and me on a therapist’s bed, we can discuss my childhood, my home life, my attitude to military work, and the security industry. Could spin it out for a month of appointments. Then come up with ‘why?’ And wait till you are dead, then…”

He heard his own voice bubbling from his throat. “Why should you help me?”

Gaz assumed both would have known the necessaries of the trade, what all military were taught – the same for them as for us. Made sense in Gaz’s mind, but weakness was setting in. They would both know about a bullet wound taken in the chest. First up was ‘debridement’ which was the business of how much filth penetrated the wound; then ‘fragmentation’ and if the bullet had held together; and then the dimension of the ‘cavitation’ the bullet had made in his chest. He’d have had five litres of blood in his veins and a portion of it was in a rainwater pool and if more than two litres were lost then he was food for the crows. There was ‘calm’, how he must be and how the man who asked for his wrists to be freed must react if he were to be saved. His mind struggled. Why would his prisoner save him? He knew he needed ‘pressure’ on the wound and needed to be ‘sat upright’. Had seen all the procedures done. And he was supposed to hate the man who offered help, and was supposed to have stepped from a side street or waited by a doorway, and faced the man and shown the Makarov. Seen his self-control disintegrating and hopefully had waited long enough for fear to set in, long enough for him to beg, then have shot him dead. Clutching, as they said, at a straw.

Gaz groped with his fingers. He was losing the numbness and the pain had started and the weakness grew, but he found the knot and started to ferret at it. It had tightened over the hours, but he worked at it and time must have slid and his efforts became more feeble… The officer did not complain at the pace, and the thinning sunlight bathed them and the voice betrayed raw excitement.

“What do I do?” the girl asked.

“Undo it.”

“For what reason?” the boy asked.

“Because I asked.”

Gaz thought that if the officer had snarled at her, they would both have refused. He did not, just held his arms out behind his back. Two kids who dealt Class C drugs round the city and had been ‘sleepers’; an officer in the country’s premier law and order and counter-espionage outfit; himself, a reconnaissance expert, psychologically damaged and an illegal – and somewhere further back, unseen, was a marksman who could put a bullet at 200 metres, on to something the size of a saucer. All together, fused… a good enough answer, and the kids did it. Hardly liked it but would have noted his colour gone and his forehead screwed in pain. He had abandoned the kids, put them out of his mind, had not considered his obligation to them, what he owed to Timofey and Natacha… was humbled. The officer’s wrists came free. He worked his wrists hard, pummelling and massaging them.

“I’ll take the pistol.”

Had read him wrong.

“If you can move just a little then I can reach it.”

He heard the kids protest, but in their own language. He thought of the magic bits that every fighting man knew of, the words that mattered: debridement, fragmentation, cavitation, blood, shock. Did not want to die, not here, so Gaz rolled a little. A hand took the weapon from his belt. A military man, and his first act was to check the safety and the status of the next round. Said nothing, pocketed it. Gaz realised he had come far, was not going farther, and that authority had switched. Not thanked, no gesture either of trust or of hostility. The officer, to Gaz, was from a world of which the Englishman, of corporal’s rank and mired in sickness, had no place. He wondered if talk about shame and guilt had been mere subterfuge, done to distract him, but that was irrelevant now.

Gaz asked, “Who shot me?”

“Scumbags, people from the gutter.”

“It was a clean shot.”

“You were a witness. You saw them if you were there.”

“The two men with you?”

“Behind me, and absolved from blame because they did nothing. They did not kill and did not help to kill and did not hide what we left. Supposed to guard me and keep me safe, were likely pissed and asleep in the car when they should have met me. There was a second marksman, I know nothing of him, and he fired twice and terrorised my people, and they ran, and they were hunted and have thrown grenades, and I know no more. Good fortune. You are correct and are decent, and I wish you well. But I have no optimism. Do not forget me, Corporal, and do not forget what I said to you.”

The pistol bulged in the major’s pocket.

He had a good stride and the kids made way for him but in Gaz’s opinion he barely saw them, as he took the same animal track that Gaz had used when getting from the tree to the lake. Had gone only half a dozen paces when Timofey raised a finger to the major’s back, and Natacha gurgled in her mouth, then spat noisily. The major gave no sign he heard.

Gaz asked the kids to lift him, to raise his head and shoulders, clear his face from the blood red of the little pool. He would ask them next to find some material that was clean – clothing, fresh on, if they had any – to make a casualty type dressing and use it as a plug for the outer wound. When he was upright they could identify if there was an exit wound, or the bullet was still inside… Then he would tell them the back-stop concept: perhaps they would help, perhaps they would not.

The officer moved as if he were a man determined on a mission and ready to organise and carry out the obvious when he reached communications. Gaz had many confusions and was tired to the point of deep sleep, but he knew that if he let his head loll and his eyes shut, then he would be gone, would not wake again. As confusing as all the rest was the question of a man firing on his attackers, frightening them off, but not showing himself. Too many confusions. The kids lifted him and their clothing was smeared with his blood. He could see up the hill, towards the spread-eagled branches of the dead tree, but no longer saw the man who had been his prisoner. Had lost everything except his life – had failed. Said so.

Natacha answered him, “You cannot have failed yourself as long as you live. To die is failure. What do we do with you?”

He had lost sight of Zhukov, had lost sight of the men he had fired towards, had lost sight of the man who had been a prisoner. He was on his own territory, and pondered.

Jasha did not enjoy surprises brought to the wilderness. Two shots fired from the Dragunov and his position still secure, Jasha could have backed away into thick undergrowth then moved off in a wide half-moon and left the scene behind him. Could have gone back to his cabin. There, might have heated a tinned meal for himself and given biscuits to his dog, and could have sat in his chair in front of his door and lit a pipe to keep away the mosquitoes. Could have wondered if Zhukov would return to him, or whether their relationship had run its course. Could have, except… the man had a bullet wound, and was being treated by two city kids who would have known nothing. The success of Jasha’s life since he had moved to this corner of the Kola peninsula was based on his caution and his shyness. He did not seek out strangers but hid from them. Did not involve himself in the affairs of others, was rigorous in the defence of his privacy. He went with a sniper’s skill, did a slow crawl and would eventually reach a rock that stood out as a marker. He came to the crushed foliage around it. He could see where his bullets had struck, where he had made grooves in the lichen, and he picked up the one spent cartridge case, then took the two abandoned rifles. He could not have explained why he had intervened, broken the core belief. They were crap weapons and carried the serial numbers given them by an armoury, and the metal insignia of FSB was hammered into the butt of each.

He thought the man was grievously hurt, and thought the kids out of their depth in matters of reaction to a gunshot wound… and he had heard the explosions past the landmark tree and knew that his confidant, Zhukov, had tracked them as they ran, and they’d have had good cause for fear. He sat back from the rock and had a clear view down, and his camouflage gear would blend well. He watched, waited, and his decision was not yet made.

“It’s like a movie.”

“No music and no fade out.”

“But real, and blood,” she said.

“I never seen a man who’s shot,” he said.

“There was a girl got stuck in the gaol, but nobody stayed around,” Natacha said.

“I seen a man knifed, down by the railway station, was mugged, wouldn’t give his phone, and nobody helped him,” Timofey said.

“Don’t get involved.”

“Get clear.”

“Anyway,” she said, “other people, the paramedics would have known what to do.”

“Except there’s only us,” he said.

“And we’re ignorant.”

She knew he listened to them. His eyes moved, lethargic but aware, and rolled, took in whichever of them spoke, and his breath came badly. Natacha knew nothing of medical care. Had never done a course in first aid or trauma response. Instinct demanded she back off, and Timofey would want to put ground between the Englishman and themselves. Would have been an old instinct, deep set. When she had been taken by the police, she would not have expected him to fight to free her, get clubbed with batons, and go to the cells with her. No one who sold on other pitches in the city, or the Chechens who came from St Petersburg with fresh supplies, would have stayed. There would be no help here and no chance of escape. If medical treatment arrived it would be because the bastards who had shot him had alerted a recovery team. They had been fired at and had run, and Timofey did not know what had happened, nor she. They put themselves at greater risk with each minute passing. His eyes watched them, waiting. He would have known what decision they had to take. She thought that he, Gaz, would not chew on blame and spit that in their faces if they left him. Whether it was a bad wound, or only looked bad, she could not have said. Each time she looked up at Timofey he seemed to step back from the business, like it would be her call, her shout. She tested Timofey.

“Do we start walking?”

“Start walking, and take him. Fuck knows how.”

“Not dump him?”

Done with a rueful grin, a trademark of her man, Timofey. “Can’t see you… Turn our backs, give him a goodbye kiss, start walking, then begin to run… Keep going, don’t slow. Leave him, ditch him. Up for it?”

And she tested some more. “What’s he done for us? All take, no give. We owe him nothing, owe his people nothing… We’d have to be lunatics to stay with him, help him.”

Timofey shrugged, a little gesture than seemed to say talk was cheap and wasted time. She reached across the head that she held and kissed her guy lightly on the forehead, like it was a sober moment – and a decision taken. Was for ‘better or worse’, seemed to her to be for ‘worse’, and defied common sense.

They lifted him. A big bird was circling, screaming at them. It was hard to hear his voice. Would have hurt him as they raised him up and she took part of his weight and Timofey had more. He spoke in Timofey’s ear, slow but coherent. One of his legs was lifted and one trailed.

Timofey said to her. “The guys who shot him went up the hill towards the border. No future there. Blocked off. Have to go down, where we started… he says there’s a back-stop. I think that means an alternative, an idea if all else is fucked.”

Natacha laughed. “Would you call that ‘well fucked, truly fucked’?”

Both guys smiled with her, but it hurt Gaz more. They went slowly and headed for the lake, and he was heavy.

Knacker stood back, waited to be told.

The Norwegian had his phone in front of him and text spewed on to it. Of course, Knacker knew bad times, as the wheat collector or the garrison commander would have, and the man with whom he identified more closely, blue woad plastered on him. Had done the vigils, had waited for his man to show. Could always justify the frustration at losing an agent: having to recruit again, change codes and procedures because, for certain, the asset would have a hard time in an interrogation cell. Would have to begin again – and he always cursed that his agent, his asset, had failed to survive that ‘last’ mission. Too careless and too desperate, and a net closing… Could have done with a cup of strong tea, and a biscuit to dunk in it. Instead let his hand fiddle in his pocket until he had identified the denarius coin: flicked it, turned it, scratched it to feel the markings, had started to regard it in the same way that some of the Mid-East veterans used the local worry beads. He thought it went badly, how badly he would soon be told. He did not interrupt but the sights in front of him – seen through layers of the branches of close-planted pine, and through the wire fence – offered little encouragement. The initial military force, described to him as border detachments of FSB, had been reinforced. More men, more trucks, more sense of impending drama: the job of preventing illegal crossings of their bloody fence would have been in the high areas of the boredom threshold and the guys in front of him looked to be motivated. Not quite baying for blood, the border boys, but close to it, and ammunition would have been issued and the chance of action was high, and… The Norwegian tugged at his sleeve, spoke softly.

“I believe we approach, friend, an end-game. Our monitoring of their airwaves provides interest. There are reports of both shooting and grenade explosions, about six klicks from here. They believe that an officer of FSB, named as Lavrenti Volkov rank of major, has been kidnapped and is being brought to the border by an illegal alien. Who fired the shots is unclear. Why grenades have been used is also confused. Much is speculation, but what is without argument is that no fugitive will make it across the frontier in this sector. I am sorry, friend, but that is a clear conclusion.”

Knacker, murmured, “Why could he not just do as he was told, why?”

He started to rap his own phone, call Fee or Alice, whoever would pick up first: anger coursed in him. A mountain of work and all wasted, because a man did not perform as instructed.

“You want to stay?”

Knacker answered, “Yes, to the end. I pride myself on an ability to treat those two impostors, Triumph and Disaster, just the same. Rough with the smooth, that sort of thing. Be here at the death, yes.”

He needed to rest and they did. Not for long but, for a few gulped breaths, they would lean him against a rock, and flop down. They were past the lake. No sirens and no helicopter engines, only the drone of the mosquitoes and the chirrup of songbirds.

Not often, but sometimes, a twig was broken in the tree line to their left, or dried leaves were scuffed. His hearing was better than his sight. Gaz’s eyes misted over. He ought to have been brutal with the kids. Said that he was prepared to take his chance, be alone, ride whatever diminishing luck came his way. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done. Might not have said it and might have taken too much for granted, but it is appreciated. We are where we are, cannot escape that. I have no right to have you jeopardise your future freedom. Put me down, leave me, and get the hell out. Keep running, never look back. Deny everything if they throw shit at you. I’m trying to tell it simply, you don’t have to stay with me. Just go home… Do that, please. Please do it.’

Might have parroted all that, given it them as a demand. But he stayed silent other than to have the breath heave in his throat and whistle out through his teeth. He did not cry out when the pain surged. He thought he asked too much of them, but they had bought into the concept of the back-stop. Should not have, but had, and Gaz thought himself damned for not refusing them. They went on. It was a summer night and there would be no darkness to hide them. But they were tough, committed, and they did not lay him down.

The numbness had gone and the pain came on hard, and each step was worse than the last. But they had cleared the lake and were among trees, thought they were watched and cringed from a sort of fear, and insects buzzed his wound, and… He tried to imagine who would care if he came through.