Quiller Balalaika

15: ORION

It was beautiful in the forest.

There was more light now from the sky, and its reflection on the ground gave an unearthly radiance among the trees, their tall black trunks standing in orderly ranks and supporting the weight of the snow on the branches above them.

The headlights of the Mercedes cut through this faerie, beguiling scene with an obtrusive brilliance, throwing shadows carved out of night. The silence, at this moment, was absolute. Uri, the driver, had switched off the engine and was standing off a little with the assault rifle just below the horizontal. He'd got out of the car first, of course, to cover me. The other man, Igor, was also standing in the snow, his boots deep in it; but he was closer, waiting for me to join him, the 13-shot Parabellum cradled in his right hand.

Mr Croder would not be pleased.

Flakes of snow were still floating from the sky and making the silence visual, to be listened to with the eyes. One can't watch a falling snowflake and imagine sound.

I got out of the car.

He'd ordered me home, after all, Mr Croder, and if I'd reached London in a more or less presentable condition they could at least have put that much into the records: Executive recalled, will be able to resume duties. When the AK-47 went through its rat-tat-tat routine a few minutes from now, the records would look less favourable for the Chief of Signals: Executive missing in the field, untraceable. It's every control's responsibility to bring his ferret back alive, and if he can keep on doing that it means we can think of him as an okay guy. But there would be nothing in Croder's records to show that his executive had in fact ignored his instructions and stuck his neck into a noose and paid the ultimate price, and that would be upsetting for him, and I hoped he wouldn't flay Ferris alive for letting it happen.

A mass of snow unshipped itself from a branch not far from where Uri was standing, leaving a cascade of jewels to stream through the headlight beams. Uri didn't move, or turn his head.

'Walk,' the other man told me, and shifted his gun upwards an inch.

I looked at him in silence. On the drive here from the city I'd thought out some compromises in terms of my behaviour. I had to continue playing the luckless innocent, victim of mistaken identity, because I couldn't switch now. But an innocent citizen would be going through a kicking-and-screaming fit by this time, Please, please, I've got a wife and kids, asking to be dragged out of the car by his collar and pushed headlong to his execution, You can't do this to an innocent citizen, lurching among the trees with his body heaving with sobs, so forth. This would have clouded the issue with melodrama and these people might have simply opened fire to bring the curtain down.

So I was playing it a touch more subtly, still an innocent but appalled, bewildered, numbed, speechless, and therefore non-threatening, easy to handle, just in case there was a chance.

'Walk,' the man said again.

'Walk where?' No longer capable of cogent thought.

'Into the trees. Follow the headlight beam.'

I began walking.

But there was of course no chance left of survival, none, and when this happens the psychochemistry of the doomed organism is interesting: fatalism, moving in to occupy the mind, leaves the subconscious to sort over any options that might be left, and this was happening as I made my way through the snow, my shadow stark in front of me.

They must surely send, then, this time, a rose for Moira, as a signal to let her know what had happened. This had been agreed, though she'd told me not to worry, I'd always come back.

Meanwhile follow the shadow, my shadow, and keep conscious thought aware only of the crunching of my calf-skin boots through the snow and beyond it the vast silence of the night, of the universe, leaving the gossamer-fine attentions of the subconscious to address my karma and conjure if they could a ray of light.

'Over there.'

His voice fainter, that of a character lost among the trees in the midwinter night's dream.

'Over where?'

'Stand against that tree. Face this way.'

To my aid, Oberon, if you are there.

The conscious mind fanciful, free-wheeling, stand back to the tree, this tree, this one?

The headlights dazzling; all I could see were two short figures against the snow, the one with the AK and the other one, closer, their faces blurred. I didn't think he would take an interest, the closer one, because of any avarice, but simply because of its power in the mind of man as I pulled it out of my pocket and held it up to assert its brilliance in the light, the universal power of the diamond.

The snow drifted down between us, black against the glare. Burning bright at the edge of my vision field as I went on holding it at arm's length, turning it, tilting it to make it flash. Time drew out, leaning across the silence, forgetting to count.

'What is that?'

'A diamond.'

He turned to look behind him, make sure that Uri was well positioned, then turned back and began walking towards me.

A kaleidoscope of colours freckled the snow on the ground as shards of light were sent arrowing from the gem.

Suddenly he was standing in front of me, a black silhouette against the headlights, his left hand held out, the Parabellum in the other hand, in the aim. I gave him the diamond.

There was of course no question of buying my life with this thing. It was already his, and in a moment he would put it into his pocket and turn and move to a safe distance and raise his hand to Uri. The diamond could only have been used as I'd used it in the Baccarat Club, as a come-hither.

'Magnificent,' he said, the freckles of coloured light on his face now as he turned the facets.

I didn't answer.

Watch his hand, the left one. When it begins moving to put the diamond away, take the final chance, for here is the moment of truth.

Time slammed shut as he moved his hand and I used an open hammer strike downwards onto his gun wrist and heard it snap in the instant before the gun fired off-target and I made the next strike to kill, a half-fist into the throat with the knuckles burying deep into the cartilage, and as he started dropping I locked the inside of my elbows under his armpits and slid my hands round his neck and wrapped them across and lifted his body above the snow and pushed him forward as Uri gave a shout, ignore, and the dance began.

Blood on my fingers: internal haemorrhage had started underneath the smashed cartilage and his mouth was running crimson. We made for Uri, the cadaver and I, because I would have to deal with him in whatever way I could when we got close enough. All I had now was a shield against the AK-47 and since the back of the corpse was to Uri he couldn't see what had happened, thought his confrere was still alive and in the line of fire.

Dancing like two bears through the snow, the weight of the dead man more than I'd thought it would be, my face beside his and our heads bumping together, smell of his blood as his ribcage flexed and his lungs sent bubbling sounds from his throat, dancing together into the glare of the light and hearing another shout, ignore, sweat running now and the breathing laboured as we lurched with his legs dangling and his eyes staring across my shoulder as I shifted the weight, his appalling weight, dance, you son of a bitch, the night's not over yet.

'Stop! Stop right where you are!'

Waving the rifle up and down but he couldn't do anything with it unless he tried a face shot which was all he could see as a target but my head was pressed against my dancing partner's as we lumbered towards him and I wouldn't think he'd risk it, wouldn't think but didn't know, and if he did take a chance my brains would be spread all over the trunk of that tree and I hated the thought of a messy end, dance, you son of a whore, but oh Jesus Christ he was heavy now and the triceps were beginning to burn and I didn't know how long -

'Stop!'

Ignore, of course. I was waiting for him to do one thing and that would end the matter, waiting for him to make one mistake and I knew what it was and he might not, might not, so let us pray, sweat running into the eyes and half-blinding them in the glare, he was to the right of us now, Uri, slightly to the right so I watched his shadow on the snow, black as night now in the headlights because we were closer, a lot closer and the breath was sawing in and out of my lungs and my head was beginning to pulse, waves of dark and light washing across my eyes, music, it would have been a help if we could have done this to music, matched our rhythm to it, say Bach or Vivaldi, something measured, a stately minuet, close now, we were getting very close and I thought there could be a chance, a remote possibility of hallelujah, but we mustn't hatch our chick – count our hatch – watch it for God's sake you must not lose it now -

'Stop right there or I'll fire!'

Bullshit, you'll fire the moment you can see a clear target but I'm not leaving shelter and if you try getting round on my blind side I can turn my shield much faster than you can move and you know that. Keep up the rhythm, keep up the rhythm under this appalling weight, the muscles running with liquid fire now and the lungs gaping under the ribs as the sweat poured on my face and I began counting – one and forward again, come on you bastard, two and forward again and stop that awful bubbling noise, three and forward again and then Uri made his mistake and as he sprang to the side and swung the gun up I hurled the cadaver down and across the barrel with the last of my strength and the shots hammered into the trees and I moved in for the kill with my muscles light, released from their burden, and before Uri had time to bring the gun up for the final burst I was into him with a series of three interconnected strikes, driving the nose bone upwards into the brain and coming down with a claw hand to blind him if there were still sight left and then thrusting a half-fist into the throat, its force rising from the heel through the hip and into the shoulder as I felt the trachial sinews flex and snap as he reeled and fell with my body on top of him, blood springing in the glare of the lights, the snow cool against my face as I bit into it, the parched husk of my mouth receiving its bounty as suddenly the night came down in waves, washing over the spirit, let us rest, my brother, let us lie for a while in this vale of sweet oblivion.