Robert Parker - Snow Storm

The whole scene seemed at odds with the image of the respectable businessman Campbell had painted on his return from Karpov’s office.

“Russian prison tattoos,” Burke suggested knowing fairly well that this was likely to be the case.

“That would be my bet,” Brown agreed, “not for the health conscious anyway. They melt down a boot heel and mix the soot with urine then inject the nasty mix through the skin using a sharpened guitar string and a modified electric razor.”

“Hardly Miami Ink is it?”

“Not entirely sure what that is but I’ll take your word for it.”

Burke thought about explaining it was a reality TV show but decided against it. He made his way back to the cop shop via Greggs getting stuck into a much needed steak bake. He’d fancied a sausage roll but when it came down to it couldn’t face the idea of pork after the sight of Karpov’s gargantuan inked form.

Davie and Andy eventually persuaded Colin into joining them on their reconnaissance mission. Davie had finally sussed Andy when the dog found him at the window and started barking. He’d almost started to think the ghost stories Colin had told him when they were kids had a grain of truth about them. It would be the first time anything he said made any sense, Davie had said.

They rendezvoused at the brothers’ place, each of them wearing black. They donned the boot polish, ensuring they tried to outsmart each other. Davie for instance had “dick” written on his forehead following some ‘help’ from Colin.

They synchronised watches and gathered supplies for sustenance in the form of two six packs and a couple of bags of Doritos. Colin wanted to take a couple of dips, a salsa one and a triple cheese one, but they told him it that it wasn’t a slumber party they were going to. “You say that like it’d be a bad thing,” He protested, probably picturing girls in pyjamas.

They moved quickly, silently for once, along the side of the air strip that ran east to west; the now unused section. Time was they’d done auto testing down here in the summer months, the concrete proving the perfect surface doing handbrake turns and doughnuts before it had begun to look properly disused and gravelly. The land was starting to reclaim it now. Even concrete had a finite lifespan when going up against the natural world. Looking up to the light in the distance. He wondered how long it would take the soil to absorb Wigtown itself if they dropped a nuke tomorrow. Not long in the eternal scheme of things but for now the old county town glittered defiantly on its hilltop.

Davie sparked up a fag making him visible at a distance as an orange dot bouncing along at a height of about six feet. Andy guessed he would be verging on bored already. He gave him ten minutes before he started moaning about it in the style of a kid demanding to know “are we nearly there yet” on a long car journey.

He had the attention span of a goldfish, some of the same facial features too, or maybe it was just the red colour to him. There was a definite similarity in the gormless expressions of both. He could well imagine the big man circling around, seeing his reflection and remembering ‘I’m a goldfish’ every four seconds as his memory expired.

They reached the crossover point, where the opposing strips intersected in the middle, and came to a halt. They were on open ground now and could see the perimeter wall. From memory, Andy didn’t think there had been a wall there before. As far as he could recall there had only been a knackered old fence where now there was an eight foot high wall in cast concrete.

Light shone over the top of the wall from inside the complex indicating someone was still around. They squatted down on the balls of their feet in a dip where the concrete of the airstrip met the grass. Tradition, or at least the films they’d been brought up on, dictated that by now they should really be lying flat out on the grass viewing the scene through sniper sights, but the cold dictated that tradition was now null and void.

“OK, so they’re most likely still in there,” Colin finally whispered. “So we need to split up.”

“Eh? How?” Davie squealed, clearly not enamoured with the idea that he might have to hang out on his own for more than five minutes.

“Think about it. When they actually leave we have no way of seeing where they go.”

Davie nodded reluctantly. “Guess I’ll be going back to the car then.”

“No sleeping though,” Colin added. “Andy, if you head over towards the entrance, but watch for any cameras down there I’ll stick around this area, make sure we’ve got a strong enough signal to relay the messages on these bad boys.” He produced three yellow walkie-talkies and dished them out to the other two. “Keep the channel clear,” he warned his brother. “When Andy sees them leave I’ll try and get to you and we’ll make chase.”

“Fair play,” Davie replied, waking up to the fact he was going to get a comfy seat out of it. He tried hard to conceal the grin on his face as he fired up yet another fag.

Victor knocked back another shot. He couldn’t get the stuff they had at home but the Stolichnaya wasn’t bad. He told himself he should stop as his mouth began to water in the tell-tale sign of impending sickness but automatically gave the barman another nod before he realised what he was doing. He didn’t like to push it too far, didn’t like to lose control in any sense, but on a day like today he reasoned, needs must.

The barman replenished his glass quickly, ever mindful of the likelihood of a large tip. Victor raised his gaze skyward and tipped his glass forward in a silent toast to his departed friend. He would ensure Oleg had a send-off befitting his status. He wasn’t a religious man but he was a fervent believer in the old ways. His position meant he had a duty as a trustee of tradition. Without the traditions, the rules, they might be no better than common criminals. With the rules they were a force to be reckoned with. They had codes, a moral compass, a noble cause and right on their side.

Plans would have to be made now. Networks evolved and groups were consolidated with the passage of time. That was just the way of it in the life they had chosen. He was used to having to think fast and adapt on the go. His childhood and he supposed his father had served him well in that respect at least. Nonetheless, it was hard to see the old guard dying out. Life expectancy wasn’t one of the perks of their business.

He looked around the bar for prying eyes and found none. At this time of night and even after this many glasses of the good stuff, even the old dog he had become began to get restless. His habits were set from life as a younger man who wanted to go places with a drink in him; a younger man who wanted to meet women. Even now he felt the ghost of the young man inside, trying to grapple with the controls.

At least here there were places to go, not like the time and place he had called his own so many years ago. Karl Marx; what a buffoon. Did he not realise that human beings were animals? Instead of hunting for money they had simply hustled for power and as before, those without lived a life of miserable servitude they were punished for trying to escape. In truth wasn’t the life he chose more honest? Wasn’t the life of a thief a fairly noble thing? He at least survived on his wits and used the skills he was blessed with. He’d never settled for life as a slave to the ideological fallacy, never given in to the state that wanted to control its citizens in order to set them free.

No, whichever way it had turned out, Victor would take his chances every time. He chose life over existence and he would choose death over it also.