Deception

FOURTEEN

‘You should have taken the deal, Sergeant Barrow.’ The newcomer spoke softly, his accent east European with a faint American inflection. He was from Bosnia, and Graham Barrow had met him before, in the company of the man named Deakin. His stomach went cold. This one’s name was Zubac and he was a killer. And wherever Zubac went, so did his mate, Ganic. Two halves of the same tool. ‘All you had to do was agree to trade what you knew,’ Zubac continued. ‘Now you have. . no value.’

‘Wait.’ Barrow held up a hand. He was breathing fast, eyes sliding sideways as he estimated his chances of making it to the side of the track and the surrounding darkness. Once out there, maybe he’d have a chance. But he knew it was slim. He’d been a long time out of action, stuck behind a desk in GCHQ Cheltenham before his last posting to Sangin, Afghanistan. Quite apart from not being physically capable of taking on monsters like these men, he wasn’t combat fit. He glanced around, trying to see into the darkness. Where the hell was Ganic? ‘I got confused, OK? I thought Deakin was going to screw me and I couldn’t risk going back. Tell him. . tell him I’ll do it.’

Zubac said nothing, merely stared at Barrow. He was of medium height and muscular, his dark hair peppered with grey, and looked exactly like what he was: an ex-soldier. Ganic was taller, with a shaved head, but they could have been brothers.

Barrow opened his mouth to say something else when suddenly a large shape flew soundlessly out of the trees right over their heads, flashing white in the glow of the truck’s lights. There was no sound, and both Barrow and Zubac ducked instinctively before realizing it was a night predator, a snowy owl, the qweck-qweck alarm call echoing through the trees.

Barrow reacted first, throwing himself off the track and running straight into the night in sheer desperation. He had only the vaguest impression of the layout of the trees, and aimed for where he thought there was a gap in the straggly trunks. He stumbled as he hit a hollow, his teeth snapping together with the shock as his foot finally hit solid ground. Then he recovered and continued in a mad dash, his breathing loud in the night and his chest heaving with the effort. He swore repeatedly without realizing, a litany of self-blame, regret and anger, but powered on by fear. He slammed through a growth of what he guessed was blackthorn, felt the skin of his cheeks and forehead laid open and a sudden coldness where the cuts were deepest. Behind him came a shout, and he knew Ganic had joined the chase. Two against one. Two killers against a tech. No contest.

He sobbed and turned instinctively towards the border, splashing through a muddy wallow. Coldness enveloped his lower legs, the wet cloth of his pants clinging to his skin, slowing him down. One of his shoes was coming loose, grating against his heel. He tried to remember what was in his camo jacket: passport, phone and some cash. Not much to shout about after what he’d been through. What a stupid waste. He was sure he’d heard the phone ringing earlier, but he’d ignored it, too busy concentrating on getting away to take calls from mates trying to convince him to turn himself in, or worse, the bastard Deakin trying to pinpoint his location. He wished he’d answered it now; maybe it was the cavalry, ready to jump in and save his skin.

Some bloody hope. He slowed just enough to rip off the jacket and, balling it up, threw it away from him and hoped his pursuers would miss it. Maybe someone would fasten on it later. . afterwards.

He coughed as the pain of running caught up with him and his lungs fought to compensate for too long without exercise. He zigzagged in a vain attempt to throw the men off his trail and immediately felt his legs weakening. No good; it was too much effort and he was running out of gas. He heard a shout off to his right and instinctively veered left away from it.

Christ, this was a shit way to go, wasn’t it? Better to have stayed in Sangin. .

Then he was running through lighter vegetation and his speed picked up. He felt a bust of exultation as he pictured the two Bosnians left way behind. Perhaps they were no better at running through this shitty terrain than he was!

He swerved once more as he saw the distant glow of lights on his left. Christ, left? What was that? There was nothing on his left, only. .

Schwedt.

He’d run in a circle.

Barrow retched and slowed, then stopped, and sank to one knee, his legs finally giving up on him, the muscles shaking with cramp. He felt beaten. In front of him, not thirty yards away, the truck lights came on. The motor was still chugging, the heater clinking like a line of tin cans on a wedding car.

And there was the tall shape of Ganic, standing by the front wing and grinning. Barrow heard a scrape behind him and knew without looking that Zubac was here, too, hardly breathing for all the running.

He felt tears of frustration and rage pulsing down his cheek. They’d herded him like a bloody sheep, forcing him to go round and come right back to where he’d started. Was this what happened to all deserters, to all those who couldn’t take any more and chose to cut and run? An ignominious end in a shitty backwater? Or did some of them actually make it and survive?

Fuck it. With the last of his resolve, he took a deep breath and charged right at Ganic, screaming with anger, wanting to pulverize that grinning face to a pulp.

He almost made it, too, catching the Bosnian by surprise. Ganic lost the grin, his mouth rounded with shock. Then Barrow saw a flare of light from the gun in the man’s hand and felt a hammer blow in his chest, and then darkness enveloped him.

Zubac walked forward and knelt by the body, checking for life signs. Nothing. Without waiting for Ganic’s help, he grasped the dead man’s arms and, huffing with the effort, dragged the body through the wet mud and grass until he was in a thin strand of pine trees. Even though he was sure the body wouldn’t be seen from the track, he felt around in the dark and scraped soil, grass and pine needles over it and brushed his hands together before returning to the truck. Then he stood for a moment, trying to recall whether Barrow had been wearing a coat. Well, if he had, he wasn’t now. Too bad. Time to get out of here, before someone came.

Ganic clambered behind the wheel, and when Zubac gave him the nod, drove off the track and slammed his foot down hard, propelling the nose of the vehicle into a tall thicket of hawthorn, nettles and wild grass. There was a dull crunch as one of the front wings collided with another heap of rusting metal which had once been a car and was now becoming part of the vegetation. The engine stalled and died. All around were the twisted and rusting hulks of other rubbish which had been thrown here over the years; an old refrigerator, tangled bicycles, ancient garden and farm machinery — even the rotting remains of an old World War Two Jeep.

Ganic considered torching the vehicle; he liked a good fire. But he dismissed the idea. Too much trouble, and it would attract attention. He walked back along the track until he reached a small BMW parked off to one side. Zubac followed, puffing on a cigarette. He climbed in and Ganic drove them back towards Schwedt, then branched off before reaching the first signs of habitation and headed for the Berlin-Stettin Autobahn.

Behind them, the rain swept in hard, covering the landscape and dripping through the trees, gradually washing the thin layer of grass and pine needles from the body.