Beyond Recall

Chapter 19

No one had ever accused Gaz of stupidity. Might have been called ‘dull’, could have been accused of ‘lacking imagination’, but had never faced a charge of ‘idiocy’. He had wriggled; stupid. Had come down off the hunter’s shoulder, demanded it; idiotic. Was into the realms of ‘not wanting to be a burden’ and insisted he should not be merely dead weight. It was permitted. Clumsily, Gaz walked, allowed himself to be supported but not carried. It was from pride, but was idiotic.

The physical effort he made, throwing one leg in front of another, increased the risk of haemorrhage, doubled the probability of more internal bleeding, would cause the deep cavities to rupture further. Whether the two men and the girl had the resolve to slap his face, twist his arm, hoist him up again, let him struggle to no purpose, was doubtful. He was dependent on no one – not on Timofey, not on Natacha, not on the hunter. He thought of them, in his scrambling mind, as having less relevance to him than the gulls following the fishing boat on its journey across the North Sea. They went faster and the trail was narrow and the branches were low on the trees, and they buffeted through them. He thought the hunter was best equipped for the branches, and the girl managed them better than Timofey.

They heard the low baying of tracking dogs, held on long leashes and tugging the handlers’ arms. They’d be leading a section of militiamen. A long way off, but the sounds carried on the wind. They had a good start, but the dogs had no ‘passenger’ to slow them. Perhaps because she had heard the dogs, and perhaps she sought escape from growing fear, Natacha tugged at his arm.

“Go there, take the money. Maybe you with us, Gaz, run and hide. Go where we cannot be found. That is a good dream?”

“It is a bad dream.”

“Into the bank. You vouch our identity. We get the money – and are gone.”

“Maybe not simple.”

“The money is there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why is there doubt?”

“I don’t know, can’t say. They might require more proof of identity, and Timofey’s father. And ‘come back tomorrow’, and perhaps a problem with a visa. They are not generous people. How do I know? I don’t know. I no longer trust them.”

“You have faith with us?”

“Yes, you and Timofey. Yes, and this man. I trust all of you. Those who sent me, they are plausible people, good at persuasion. Always talk of the national interest being served. They promise gratitude and reward, but they walk away. We cannot go faster than dogs.”

“You want what?”

“I want not to be the reason that the dogs get to you.”

Jasha led. The way he took them might have been good cover for a wild cat or for a fox. They crouched. It was a long time since Gaz had been able to see the grey waters of the inlet, and the low cloud settled on the hills on the far side. Among the trees and protected by the canopies the rain was less fierce. He imagined how it would be for the handlers, perhaps a mile behind them, and held back by the dogs tangling interminably among the trees. There would be little discipline in such dogs, big and hungry and aggressive; not the ones that sniffed for explosives and IEDs where he had served before. If the dogs came close he would not be able to increase his speed, nor would they go faster if they had to carry him. If the hunter used his rifle against them, it would be almost impossible to get anything other than a close-range shot among the trees. Would only be able to halt the dogs when they were within a few yards from him. And it was, truth to tell, the first time that he had considered the possibility – probability, certainty? – that it was here the business would be concluded… Remembered a training exercise when he had been in the recruit camp in Herefordshire, with the rookies, and they had done an exercise and had to lie up in a wood for two days and nights and then dogs had been put in to find them. Others had been located, not Gaz. Good fortune, not judgement. Pepper sprays might neutralise their noses… but the handlers, with rifles, would be close behind. Beginning to nag at Gaz: in an Arctic woodland of dwarf birch it would end and with him would be the newfound friends.

“Will you, please, leave me? Get the hell out. Please, as I ask.”

What the English boy said to him, earnest and heartfelt, had been translated by the girl, and the look on her face was droll, and her boy seemed offended that the demand was made. Jasha laughed. Doubted there was humour on his face. Seldom saw reason to laugh. And now?

The idea of him allowing a friend, an opponent of his ‘enemy’, to be dropped on the sodden leaves, was not worth a moment’s thought. Turn his back on him, allow him to linger with a bullet wound incapacitating him? Nor would he have considered leaving the kids to run on their own. He would have backed himself to find a river course, or a natural drain where the rainwater plunged and use it to lose the dogs. Not a problem for him. If he had abandoned them he would go back to his cabin and shoot his dog, and then sit in his chair and kick off a boot, and place his big toe inside the trigger guard of the Dragunov and put the barrel end in his mouth. Could not have lived with himself had he abandoned them.

Jasha said to the girl, “Tell him what he asks for is not possible. Tomorrow we have a smaller chance. The window now is good. Foul weather, but in twenty-four or thirty-six hours it moves away and then it is clear. The whole area of the Kola will be covered by helicopters, and troops swarming. No chance of using the fence because the patrolling will be too heavy. The way you have chosen offers that window, but it is small. Do not rely on luck. A fickle lady. Does not come to the undeserving. You earn luck.”

It was translated. He pointed to the two rifles hooked on his back.

“You want one?”

Translation, then a nod.

“You can use one?”

“You were a soldier? You were in Afghanistan?”

Gaz spoke, and the girl listened, then told him. Had been a soldier, had been in Afghanistan and in Syria, a reconnaissance specialist, the same breed as a sniper, worked beyond the lines of safety. Spoke the words of a poem. And the girl translated, struggled but took trouble. When you are wounded and left on Afghan’s plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Then roll on your rifle and blow out your brains, And go to your God like a soldier. Jasha liked it and recognised it as a truth.

His answer was to hum softly, the lilted tune of the anthem, of his Lili Marlene. He could hear the sounds of the dogs, and they went on down the hill, and could not go faster. He thought the man knew the tune of the song and his lips moved with it but no sound came other than the steadily more frantic cough and bubbling spit in his throat.

Natacha said, “Timofey reckons that the major will have told them everything about you. And you will be a great prize to them. Everything, right to the colour of your socks.”

He answered her, “I don’t think so. I don’t think he will tell them anything.”

Which was ridiculous; she did not understand him, nor did Timofey.

Often the leashes snagged as the two dogs tugged in different directions, searched with their noses, snorted, chased after fragments of scent in the wet ground under the trees. The handlers were pulled over, were bruised, cursed. Not a difficult decision. Had they sufficient control over their animals if they were let free? They thought so. The bond between dog and handler would likely be sufficient for the dogs to stay within a reasonable distance of the pursuing group. From the actions of the dogs it seemed clear to their handlers that the quarry was close, would soon be confronted.

They were let loose. Big beasts, good on the fence. Intimidating when tracking the illegals who attempted a crossing from the Murmansk side into Norway. Poorly fed which encouraged their aggression. The handlers followed and the guns came close behind.

It was the last leg of his journey. It had started at the check-in desks for service personnel at the military airbase at Latakia, a pretty enough place, kissed with Mediterranean sun, and unmarked by the war. Lavrenti Volkov had been troubled then, but had not believed how severe would be the scarring. Many on that same flight would harbour bad memories of the war, but he believed none would have incubated such despair, that extent of guilt.

He had never been a drill freak. Had been able to hold his place in the second rank of a parade in uniform for a VIP. Not one who would have been visible or barking orders or carrying a pennant on a lance. Adequate… He walked well now that it was – almost – the culmination of the journey. Straight back. Measured stride. Negotiating hazards that might have tripped him, going through water, stepping over protruding rocks, keeping his arms against his side. In his right hand was the corporal’s pistol: while he had sat he had cleared the breech, checked the magazine, loaded and armed the Makarov. He had passed at least three-quarters of an hour before a small group from the border force, drawn along by two dogs and handlers, well-equipped troops. He had broken stride only to accept their greeting and he had gone on and had allowed a sergeant’s urgent question – where was he, the fugitive? – to die in the noise of the wind. He had the rain on his back. It fell as hard as it had in the village.

He went through the last line of trees, emerged and crossed the military road that ran the length of the fence, and next was the ploughed strip. Lavrenti could have given, two days before, a formal lecture on the importance of the barrier on Russia’s border. Could have spoken of the need to prevent those who threatened the security of the Motherland from entering the territory he was tasked to protect, could have waxed enthusiastic on his country’s ability to withstand threats, repel invaders. Beyond the wire was a dense line of fir trees. He had lost his cap but the medal ribbons were bright on his chest, and mud spattered his military trousers, but he would have cut a fine figure. There were shouts ahead of him. Their officer ran forward… He saw the pair of them, the old sergeants who had dropped their weapons and who had bolted. They seemed to stiffen at the sight of him. He gave no indication of his mood. The young border troopers who had known that an FSB officer was kidnapped, then in vague circumstances had been freed, gazed at him with open admiration. Still the powerful stride, leaving his footprints in the ploughed strip, he came to the track inside the fence where vehicles were parked. The officer left a radio dangling on a coiled wire at his jeep and hurried towards him. An arm was outstretched, a hand offered to Lavrenti while receiving congratulations on his safe delivery from evil, from danger, from the clutches of the enemy. He noted all of that.

The pistol was used to reinforce his gesture. The officer was to stay back, was not to impede him. Another flick of the barrel and troops edged away, stood at the side and watched, confused, and the officer flushed at the slight. No word spoken, but the Makarov in his hand gave a clear message. He was over the track and stood a few paces back from the wire.

Still holding the pistol, Lavrenti’s hands came together, made the image of a man in prayer. But his eyes had a deadened look.

He flicked the barrel of the pistol towards those who watched him. No one knew what to say, how to react. He gazed ahead through dulled eyes. Beyond the wire, clouded by mist and the weight of rain, was thick pine woodland. He assumed this was where his captor, the good corporal, was taking him and here the wire would be breached again, and he wondered what trick, what clever subterfuge, had been used to bring the man in at this place. And remembered that he lived because his life had been protected by the corporal. Many men watched him and held firearms, and if he had run towards the fence and tried to scramble over it he would have been tackled at the legs, or shot, or merely overpowered and treated with the same fickle concern shown to any gibbering wreck suffering ‘combat fatigue’, whatever psychiatric title was now in vogue.

Had more to remember… The cordon going into position and a few slipping away, and many encircled, some with fear on their faces, more with hatred, all with defiance.

The hooded informer, and boys named – and one taken to the football area, and the rope, lifted and kicking.

The crossbar breaking, and bayonets used.

His face slashed by a woman, and her and others taken to the gully where the stream ran fiercely from the severity of the rain. Could feel the shallow depression on his skin… wore a gallantry medal’s ribbon, and many assumed it was a combat scrape, shrapnel.

Old women and young women abused by the militia boys, then shot. And children shot. And homes burned

A body in the trench, life not yet extinguished, and aiming, and the unblinking eyes watching him. Do not beg, not plead, but hate… All remembered, making shackles on him.

He was watched and they did not know how to respond.

The scream was carried on the wind, muffled but clear, a cry of acute pain and an awful fear.

A noise such as neither of the handlers had ever heard from their dogs. The sergeant and his militia boys were rooted behind them.

A noise to wake the dead, and one handler knew it was his dog’s cry.

Both blundered forward and the low branches scraped their faces.

One was sick, vomited the entirety of his last meal. The other howled in anguish.

The lead dog, there was always a pecking order with the big border patrol animals, and would have been a couple of lengths in front and closing on the source of the scent; it was on its side, its stomach ripped open, its intestines displayed loosely. Life was slipping but still it screamed. The skin and coat of its belly seemed to have been cut with the sharpened tips of a rake, many lines and all savagely deep. The other dog, usually cocky, confident, fearless, lay on its back, posture of total submission. The first handler took his pistol from his holster, choked on his sobbing, shot his dog.

He said, “A bear. They bounced a bear.”

From his colleague, “Not another metre. We go back. Not another step forward.”

“I think my man got to him.” Knacker murmured to the Norwegian, as the little grin played at his lips. “He’s not going anywhere. It’s as far as the road goes for Major Lavrenti Volkov. Funny old world.”

Not even up on the damn Wall, when Maude was scratching at mud with a toothbrush or the trowel he’d bought her at a Christmas fair five years back, had Knacker felt so cold, so wet, and so elated. Always best when the unexpected dropped in his lap. The Russian stood still and moved not a muscle. His face was impassive, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication, except when an officer had approached and a pistol waved at him. Entreaties for him to lower the weapon or give it up were ignored.

And quieter, “Don’t you chicken out on me, my boy. Don’t do a tease.”

The officer had a radio at his ear, was relaying messages that came over the link to his principal NCO, and was calling on additional manpower and tried to explain, obvious to Knacker, the bizarre behaviour of their supposed kidnap victim. The militiamen watched bemused…

The Norwegian, dry, in a few words, told him what he heard.

Knacker responded. “He wants redemption, and won’t get it, and is a murdering little shit, will get no absolution and knows it. Will have to do it for himself. He was good, my man, didn’t know he’d have this sense of theatre. I think, never afraid to admit a fault, that I short changed him. I suppose he’s out there, alone – better out of his misery. Yes, sooner the better if not already.”

He was told about a bear, about a dog, about the abandonment of a pursuit. Was told that helicopters would fly in the morning. An additional two companies of regular mechanised infantry from the garrison camp at Titovka would go into the field for the search mission. The wind would stay strong but the rain would be gone.

“In the military they’ve a bit of a yardstick about getting their people back, injured or corpses. Started in the US effort in Vietnam. A man down, send in a platoon to recover him. Not enough so make it a company, still can’t get to him so it becomes a battalion and then a regiment and full-blown close support air strikes, and an air cavalry intervention, for one man who is alive or is dead. Not our way, friend, not in my trade. A funny old world and a tough old world. Stand on their own, or lie on their own. They know it, are all volunteers, all signed up understanding the way things are. Rum for him that it didn’t work out. Not that we’ll be repeating.”

A stand off had developed in front of Knacker. The major, drenched, coated in slime and mud but with his medal ribbons still prominent, remained motionless and the detachment’s officer was uncertain what action to take. Knock the damn pistol out of his hand, wait for a psychiatrist to show up, keep talking gentle crap in the hope that the lunatic would start blubbering and chuck the weapon down. Knacker glanced at his watch. Had a bit of time left, not much. Would want to catch the flight out of Kirkenes that evening, then the red-eye from Tromso back to the UK.

Knacker said, “We’ve a new broom back at the shop. Not in favour of this sort of caper. Going to rein us in, and put the old ones, me and my ilk, out to grass. Don’t see the value of this type of mission. I tell you, should the shit do the decent thing and go to his Maker, there will be riotous pleasure in a couple of refugee camps, firing in the air, singing and dancing and a carnival night, because of what happened, and we will have won lifelong allies in that neck of Syria. Sorry, but it is now regarded as old fashioned, better left to satellites. The bullies and the dictators, and the killers, are – anyway – going to be our new friends… Come on, I’m here till the end but get a bloody move on, can’t you.”

But the pistol barrel did not waver, remained pointed to the leaden sky, held by hands in prayer.

Delta Alpha Sierra, the nineteenth hour

“He’s called Knacker, agent runner. Don’t mind him. Seems fierce but he’s all right. From the Sixers. Just tell him what you saw.”

His officer escorted him to a closed door. Two women were waiting outside: one was fluffy and small and blonde and with pretty freckles, and the other was taller, heavier, had a serious tattoo on one upper arm and bulged in a T-shirt and floppy shorts.

“This him?”

His officer answered them. “Well, it’s not fucking Father Christmas – and he’s had a tough time so treat him well.”

The door was opened. The women followed but not his officer. Behind a formica-topped table was a small man, stocky and powerful and greeting his visitor with a decent smile. The sort that would put Gaz, a little, at ease. An apology. Food and water were waiting in the Mess for him, and a medic on standby to run over his condition, but this guy, Knacker, would really appreciate his take on the last twenty-for hours. Seemed it had been this Sixer’s shout, way back, that had caused them to target the village, get the camera in place, and line up a friendly location in an area of hostility. He’d said he was fine, could wait for food and drink, and had talked.

Started with the camera and the schedule for the batteries and the life they had, and the need to clear out the recorded images. A set of batteries might have been faulty and the need for replacements had come sooner than anticipated. All routine stuff and all rendered with a dry monotone voice. And the move into position up a slope and under a lip below the plateau, and a girl with goats, and boys coming back on pick-ups, and then the convoy advancing up the highway. He told of some specifics, of the first boy to be hanged and of the corralling of the women and children and old men. Described how the crossbar had collapsed under the weight of four suspended youths. The woman who had slashed the officer’s face – a fair-haired Russian officer. Had struggled but had gone on to describe the long day, and the longer evening, the burning and the shooting, and then the Iranian militiamen lining up for their turn, their belts loosened and their flies undone. Spoke of the girl who hid close to him and who never spoke except to say that her sister was among the dead. Had remembered pretty much everything, and it had seemed to hurt more, now, in the recall, than when it had been played out live in front of him. Tears came.

“It’s all right, Gaz, take your time. Nearly through, but it is important we have a record, an honest and truthful appraisal which is what we are getting. We have ways of making people answer for their actions, not always obvious and sometimes far from sight, but that’s what we do. Have done in the past, will do again. Those sort of bastards, particularly the Russian officer, imagine themselves above any creed of the legality that we believe in. I promise you, Gaz, if anything can be done then it will be done. I don’t chuck them around lightly, promises. And at the end… ?”

He spoke of the darkness and of the pits, and of the shooting of those already in the pits who showed faint signs of survival. Then talked, with a choke in his throat, of the girl, and the stampede of her herd, and of militiamen running towards his hiding place where she, too, had taken shelter. He would have been identified, would have been captured and paraded, but she had run, had drawn them off. He said, would have sounded infantile to this man, that when he had been a youngster on a farm that a hind would bolt from cover to take dogs away from the place where a fawn, too young and too weak to run, had shelter. Told what had happened to the girl when she was caught. Told how she had escaped being shot dead, was a witness. Told this man, Knacker, he owed his life to her.

Knacker said, “What can be done will be done. As we said about the genocide people in Bosnia, ‘They can run but they cannot hide’. We go after them. It’s not something we forget. Thank you.”

Had seemed decent, had reckoned him to be a caring and honest man. He went out. Went to look for the girl. Was told she had been taken to the medic. Went to the medic. Seemed not a big deal. ‘What the local kid? Yes, saw her. Gave her a ‘morning-after’ dose.’ Had they provided her a bunk in the women’s quarters? ‘Didn’t have to. She’s gone, pushed off. Said something about some goats and her dogs. Just as well, would have been difficult, impossible, to square with regulations, her sleeping here.’

Had gone outside the collection of Portakabins and converted freight containers. Had gone to the entry point where the sentry was positioned behind a wall of sandbags. Was told she had come through, was alone, was walking, that no transport was deemed available. Had borrowed the sentry’s night-vision glasses, had scanned the track leading away from the Forward Operations Base. Had not seen her, had not thanked her, had failed her. He owed his life to her…

Timofey freed him, then Natacha did. He sagged. They left him to be held up by the hunter.

They ran, as best they could, down to the shore. There was a half-light of grey, the rocks and the sea and the far side of the inlet and the cloud ceiling, but a little brighter as if the worst of the night was over and a new day tilted forward. A desolate headland stretched away in front of them. Not a place that either would ever have been to before. No school party, no youth section, would have come here. Not fenced in but no road reaching the place: inside a restricted zone, halfway between the two Northern Fleet bases for submarines. When they were close to the water, they looked back, needed the final directions of the hunter.

Because he was soaked and because the wind off the open water snatched at his clothing, Timofey thought it a bad place, one without life, without hope. He saw the concrete flooring of abandoned buildings, and the roofs long collapsed. The place would have been built for the Great Patriotic War effort, what they had drilled into them at school. The weed came up out of the water and seemed to squirm on the rocks, made them treacherous. Far down the inlet, back towards his home city, Murmansk, was a flash of white set deep in the uniform grey. He squinted hard, and blinked to get the rain from his eyes, and saw the shape of a naval vessel and the white was the bow spray that it threw aside. He turned, gestured to the hunter that he had seen the warship and received a curt duck of the head, indicating the man had seen it maybe minutes earlier. The man knew much… matters that had never concerned Timofey, nor Natacha; knew when the tide was at its highest, when it would turn and run back towards the open sea, when the wind would shift, when the rain would end, and sunlight lie on the wilderness behind them. They needed the tide and the wind, and needed to be gone before the storm ebbed. His thought was savage: better to have been at the railway station and meeting the long distance trains, better to be dealing there and dodging between shadows and using cover, better to have been at the apartment and changing clothes and going into the city to dump a plastic bag filled to overflowing with the bloodstained clothes they wore now. The sea water broke on the rocks by his feet and he thought the tide almost at its highest point.

He asked her, “What colour is it?”

“It is green. He said it was green.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Nor me.”

He shrugged, admitted his failure to locate it. The hunter might have sworn and if he did his voice was lost in the wind. One hand holding the man, their friend, and one pointing to the right of where he and Natacha stood – or crouched as the wind gusted stronger. Looked at the waves and their crests, looked at the swirling weed carried up to the surface, looked at the shades of grey that were constant in the water, looked at the wave that the naval vessel made as it came up the inlet, looked again where the hunter pointed, and saw it.

It was green, the colour of springtime’s grass, what there would be in a pasture. It bobbed and half the time, when a wave came on to it, was doused and then disappeared, then would spring up again. It strained to break free from a rope but was tethered. He could not have dreamed of doing it. Timofey understood that the hunter had absorbed the coordinates on the slip of paper, had programmed them, had made his own map and puzzled on the mathematics. Then had brought them through the denseness of the scrub and woodland, and they had emerged close to the shore and within 100 metres of where they were directed. He could not have done it, nor Natacha. He showed her the buoy. It seemed so small and the sea so big… She shivered. He held her close. Thought, was not angered and not surprised and not broken, that his Natacha – his soulmate – would probably have gone with the Englishman across the frontier if he had been able. Would have followed him, gone for the brighter lights, louder music, or might not. Thought it, accepted it, held her tight and tried to squeeze warmth into her. The hunter, Jasha, called them. Together, they scrambled back over the rocks.

“He’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Never good, what I say, that combination – a lunatic and a loaded firearm, not good.”

They stood behind the officer who gabbled into his radio about a crazed major who had a pistol and seemed not to want rescuing but indicated he would shoot anyone who closed on him, but had not spoken.

“You want more?”

“No.”

“Are you looking for a decoration?”

“Meritorious service, one hanging from a lanyard, don’t think so.”

Mikki and Boris had been given coffee and had fed on bread and sausage, and the officer had no time to quiz them. The pistol had been waved decisively in the officer’s face and he had backed off. The attitude of prayer was resumed.

“Front row of the veterans’ parade on Armed Forces Day?”

“Not for me.”

“Going to turn in those kids, the druggie kids, him who deals and her who waves those little boobs in the air? Going to?”

“The price of a decoration? Don’t think so. No thanks for it. Agreed? We turn our back on the fucking hero of the fierce combat for that village, Deir al-Siyarqi, on him.”

They slipped away. Would get a ride down from the fence and back to where their vehicle was parked. Would be on a plane and headed south, gone by the time the inquest came to dig into detail. Unnoticed they eased back from the fence, left their major. Loyalty? Neither would have reckoned to know its meaning.

“Me first. And you. Me second, and you,” Mikki said. “The way this country works – and me third, and you.”

He was helped. Gaz tried to find the strength to walk unaided but the rocks glistened from the rain and were coated in weed… Had seemed to come to a decision which was the spur. No drugs in him but a variant of delirium. About a future. Seemed important and worth living for. Must have been a fantasy because he stood on rocks and was nudged forward, firm movements and not brooking weakness, nor delay: and ahead of him was the channel where the waves surged and a future was an illusion. A dream and likely beyond reach but still a comfort: who he would be with. Would hold to the dream as he weakened, slipped.

The man spoke to the girl, clipped words and not for argument.

She told him, “You have to fight. At the darkest hour, you fight. Put an image in your mind, and fight for it, or put a person there. You will never dream if you do not fight.”

The officer called to him, “For God’s sake, however unpleasant your experience you should not threaten with a firearm, should behave like a man of honour. Show some fucking balls, man. Stop simpering like a college girl. You are behaving in a disgraceful manner, not fit to wear a proud uniform, you…”

He did not look at the officer. Lavrenti estimated where the man stood. He lowered his right hand and swung his arm and his aim was into the dirt. He slipped his finger inside the guard. Squeezed in a disciplined way, and fired. One shot, and the voice had strangled in the officer’s throat… He heard the metal scrapes as other weapons were armed, cocked. He resumed his posture. Hands together… He had noticed, from the corner of his eye that the two men given him by his father, Mikki and Boris, had left. Justified. Now he surprised those who watched him… thought of his father and thought of his mother and there was no affection, no respect… and he started to take slow and deliberate steps towards the fence.

He did not consider the village. He did not think of the corporal who had brought him to this point.

Lavrenti was now two paces from the wire. It stretched taut in front of him, showed grime and wear, was ochre – coloured from rust, and in places plastic strips had been ripped by the winds and had scudded on to the barbs. Saw the smooth tumbler wires that were alarmed and would flash lights, activate cameras, howl a chorus of sirens if he disturbed them. Would they shoot him if he careered the final steps and jumped and was prepared to lacerate his bare hands and try to heave himself up? Or would they just drag him back, drop him in the mud, talk about when a strait jacket could be brought up?

He looked ahead. He peered into the trees. He saw the shadow shape of the man’s shoulders, set low as if he sat on something short, perhaps a stool and perhaps a log, and thought he caught also a momentary sight of a second man but in fatigues and better camouflaged… It was where Lavrenti would have expected to find the corporal’s officer, his control. The man would be close to the frontier, waiting for his agent… Would not know that he waited in vain because of a single rifle shot: a bad wound and no medical treatment was a sentence of death, might already have been exacted. The corporal would have been there for identification, a reconnaissance trooper, and the assassin would have been due to travel in his wake, a week later or two weeks, could have been a month. Refused to do the killing himself, accepted the role of gaoler to escort Lavrenti to the border, across it, into a courtroom. Had achieved much, had cleared Lavrenti’s mind. He thought himself grateful, the weight was shed. The lie and the guilt were no longer lived.

To the wire, Lavrenti said, “He was a fine man, the finest… dead. I owe him much. I am in debt to him.”

He smiled. Of those who watched him, only a man crouching beyond the wire and hidden by low branches would have understood, and those in a half-circle behind him would have thought he rambled… For guilt there was a punishment. For a crime there was no atonement.

He lifted the pistol, the corporal’s pistol. He put the barrel between his lips, bit on it. He pushed the barrel deeper, felt the metal grind on his teeth. His finger was on the trigger, and the foresight of the Makarov gouged the roof of his mouth. The corporal had been his teacher. His finger tightened, squeezed.

Knacker murmured, “Well, fuck that for a curtain line.”

The Norwegian was impassive.

The noise of the single shot faded. The blood spout and the bits had long scattered. The body did some spasms but was lifeless now and the top of the head was fractured. The officer, first to move, bent, crouched, then knelt, shrugged to confirm the obvious, prised the pistol away, without fuss, made it safe. Walked off.

A stretcher was brought from one of their trucks and the remains of Lavrenti Volkov, major of Federalnya ’sluzhba bezopasnosti, was heaved on to it, no ceremony and little respect. And somehow fitting… Knacker thought it the way that a condemned, pronounced dead, would have been treated in the pit below the trapdoor. He thought those in the camps adjoining Syria and with especial attention to those who had come from that village, that region, might enjoy a telling of the circumstances of the retribution. Might egg it a little, might give more satisfaction that way, might upgrade the role and responsibility of a young British trooper – out of retirement from the front line but determined to avenge the savage atrocity meted out to loyal and innocent friends – that sort of stuff – and gave his life in the act. Might be the end of the road, but always a requirement to leave matters neatly in place.

The body was hoisted into the back of a truck. Some mud and leaves, sodden and clammy, were kicked over the blood stains. There would be sufficient carrion feeders out here to clear up. They were moving on, no longer required.

His phone vibrated. Alice. If he wanted that flight it was time to quit his location, come direct to the Kirkenes airport. He was asked if there was word of their man, and he answered quietly that the belief was that he had been shot, dead probably. Likely hidden somewhere in the squat forest of the tundra and might lie there for weeks, months, years. Too wet for the dogs, and too windy for the choppers to fly, but the forecast was due to improve for the rest of the week. Best if their man were not found and if Gaz, done better than expected for all his queasiness, were left to lie in peace, the rain and winds would scatter the scent of his failed flight.

The lorries drove away. Knacker emerged from the trees and his Norwegian friend folded up the stool he’d provided.

He went up to the wire, stood inches from it. Knacker rummaged in his pocket and found the coin. Maude might have understood but if she did not then it hardly mattered to him. It would be a good place for it to rest. He took it out of the pocket. A silver denarius from the reign of the Emperor Hadrian, the image of Pietas, ‘duty’, still visible. He imagined himself as one of the Frumentarii, a wheat collector, alone and gathering lethal intelligence. Was, briefly, also an officer trained to conduct counter-espionage on the Wall, and keep it safe, secure… Or could have been the dirty little beggar in pelts and covered in woad who did the job on the other side. Not important which role he, Knacker, performed 1800 years later. He held the coin, brushed it hard against his camouflage to retrieve some shine on its surface, and threw it.

No sunlight to glint on it. It rose in an arc, dived, and fell.

The coin, pressed in that precious metal, landed near to where the blood had been thickest, but the rain was already dispersing it. It made a feeble splash, and sank. He had been here, the wheat collector or the intelligence officer or the spy master, had left his mark. An honourable profession and he had no shame for any of his achievements and no regrets for the price others – always others because that was the nature of his work – might have paid. The airport would be called, told he was on his way, the flight would be held. This section of fence was silent, like nothing had happened there, and a few birds chirped without enthusiasm.

Knacker said to the Norwegian, “Always remember what delivers intelligence is agents. They are motivated by money and ideology and compromise and ego, any of those or all of them, so MICE puts agents in the field, on the ground, and they deliver. Deliver a hell of a sight more than bloody machines. Been a good day and a good evening. Ended well for us. One or two things not quite in place, but mostly satisfactory – and left tidily.”

She was in the water. The estimate, before Natacha went in, was that the naval vessel would power past the green-painted buoy that rode in the waves and would head on for the mouth of the inlet. She had stripped down, wore her jeans and not much else, and had shaken off her trainers and socks. Any other time, Gaz could have done it, but not with an entry wound, not with an exit wound. She was in the water and at the buoy, and the vessel should have been hammering up the inlet, but it had slackened power, and was crawling. She swam well enough, clumsy but effective, and could flip up her legs and do a shallow dive and had already dragged hard enough on the rope to show them the package fastened to it, then had wrestled with it, would have had cold fingers and been shivering through her body, and had freed it, and had showed them, and… the vessel had slowed and twenty of the crew, could have been more, were on deck. She was pointed at.

Timofey swore softly. The hunter, Jasha, was stone-faced. Gaz, and most of them in the regiment, would have said they believed in the true faith, in Murphy’s Law. ‘If it could go wrong, it would, bet your shirt on it.’ A biblical level of certainty about it. An officer was being called. It had to be Natacha who went into the water because Jasha said he could not swim, and neither could Timofey. Shouting and running on deck, and decisions to be made: time passing, and him weaker, and the best of the tide was now, and the best of the wind. She rose out of the water. Sat, astride the buoy. Gave the guys on the warship a view of herself. Waved to them. Would have heard the cheering and the wolf whistles.

Let them bounce, did an eyeful for them, blew kisses back. And seemed, and Gaz did not know how she managed it, to waggle her hips… She was a great girl, a unique kid, and he counted the blessings that she was the girlfriend of Timofey, a wakened sleeper. Had never met anyone in any way similar.

A belch of dark smoke breeched the funnel vent. Like an oil problem in the engine had been dealt with. The whole length of the deck was filled with sailor boys, all rewarded with the full sight of her white skin and her breasts and sodden blonde hair clinging to her shoulders. The vessel gathered power. The sailors might have been on their way out into the Barents for a week-long sea trial, or might have been at the start of the journey down to the Mediterranean and warmth. Gaz doubted, wherever they went, they would find another girl with the supreme talent of Natacha, drug pusher from Murmansk, and his friend.

She had the package, and swam back to the rock where they sheltered.

Timofey helped her ashore, shivering and sliding and coughing water, and they had no towel to dry her, but that job was done with the fleece that Jasha wore. He used his knife on the package wrapping to reveal the folded shape of the folded rubber, and air hissed and the shape filled, became a dinghy. Might have been six feet across, and the sides might have been a foot high, and the wind caught it, and Timofey grabbed it.

Farewell time, but not protracted. The kids took the dinghy down to the water; it seemed feather light and rose and fell and slapped the rocks and the weed. Jasha had hold of Gaz. Just a few words from him and they might have heard him and might not, and the business in hand was getting him into the craft. They had no water to give him, and no food. He was in the middle of telling them that they were good people, and the pain had lifted in his chest, and he could barely hear his own voice. The tide pulled away, the tide did the job and the wind caught at the dinghy’s side and propelled it. It was the back-stop.

The girl had not covered herself and shook from the cold. Timofey might have choked on tears. The old hunter gazed down at him ‘Did what I could, could not have done other.’ Gaz saw Timofey point once, back down the inlet and towards the city and then they were scrambling to get clear of the open rock and regain the cover of the undergrowth. He did not need to use his hands as paddles because the elements took him out into the flow and away from the shelter of the headland.

Gaz felt a desperate sense of tiredness. Wanted to sleep and reckoned if he did, could, that the pain would go and the sleep would be deeper.

The tide took the dinghy, and the swell was around him and spray splashed on to him. If it had not been for the water coming over the smooth rubber sides he would have slept. One hand was draped over the side and in the sea, and was intended to act as a rudder, futile because the craft now had a mind of its own. The tide and the wind dictated that it went effortlessly towards the central water of the inlet, and here the current was more headstrong and the wind funnelled up between the two hillsides flanking it. Almost starting to dream. Of warmth. The rain seemed to have slackened but not the gusts, and he made good speed… and he was thrown from one side of the dinghy to the other. Water cascaded over him, was in his wound and in his face and down his throat and stung his eyes. The dinghy shook and he gripped the fine rope looped around the inside of the tiny craft. He was close to capsizing and the rain came in torrents, and his movements must have further opened the wound and damaged the interior cavity. If he went under he would not regain the surface, knew it. A great dark shape was passing him, a ship surging on down the inlet and towards the sea. Later he would see the lights of the bridge, then would be flung about again as the screws churned the water.

He felt that the fight had left him.

Would drift and would wait for sleep to claim him.

Did not know his name, nor where he was, nor why. And the tide raced faster and the wind flicked the waves and the swell was fiercer.