Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

The Jew stood. The meeting was concluded.

The Jew had been ‘invited’ to Lefortovo because the gaol and its section of interrogation rooms was the place where Lavrenti was most comfortable when in the capital and needed to meet strangers. He very seldom entertained in the bistros of the Arbat district, or in the dining-room of a larger hotel. To have control and to feel the exercise of authority, he chose one of the small, soundproofed rooms inside the gaol. Here, he could be confident that any individual he met would be unnerved, anxious, and therefore likely to put themselves in Lavrenti’s debt… Not this man.

The Jew had explained his position in the fields of Arctic mineral extraction, had outlined his proposed understanding, and now expected the major to ‘piss or get off the pot’. Implicit in what Lavrenti was offered was the Jew’s confidence that it was ‘take it or leave it’ and that there would be a queue of other men inside the Shield of the State, the Federal’nya sluzhba bezopasnosti , who he could turn to if this agreement were not accepted. The man wanted a roof; word would have passed to him that a rising star in the firmament could provide the necessary guarantees, a solid and progressive roof, a krysha . Also implied was the unstated and unarguable fact that the Jew took a chance with this young man and banked on his reputation to survive and to prosper. It was a long-term arrangement that the Jew looked for, and one of mutual benefit.

It was the usual tactic of Lavrenti, when a man was in front of him, across a bare desk, that he said little, aimed to increase the discomfort of his visitor… not so that morning. The Jew had his cigarette packet on the table, along with a chunky Marlboro lighter, and would soon – likely – ignore the No Smoking sign and light up, which would activate the alarms. The Jew seemed to feel he had given enough of his time, looked for confirmation and was ready to leave. The deal was for ten per cent, rising to fifteen per cent of anticipated profits.

The take-out was small initially, but the major was not yet in the giddy circles of those adjacent to the seat of power, the court of the Czar, but would soon be if he worked and exercised influence. The offer meant he was, as yet, taken on trust.

The Jew did not have any small talk and seemed puzzled that more questions had not been asked, but the detail was run through and Lavrenti stared down at the table. No paper record and no bugged recording of this conversation would exist. He had exercised his power many times in small rooms such as this one before going to Syria, and they would again be his fiefdom when he returned from the short visit to Murmansk. Now he was alone, faced a significant step into unknown territory, would no longer be the protégé of his father and feed from the old man’s hand… It had been another bad night.

It was hot that day in the small interrogation areas of the Lefortovo, the air-conditioning was off and the windows were sealed, and sweat beaded on the back of his neck and threatened to break loose on his forehead. In the night, fleetingly, he had felt the cold on his body when the wind had driven the rain against his camouflage gear and the wet had penetrated and the chill had gripped. He remembered each hour, each minute, at the village, and what had happened and what he had done.

This was the future… a deal to provide a roof and protection to a little Jew who would trick and bribe and evade responsibility for revenue payment and he would assure the success of the programme, and would live well off it – as his father had done with other cash cows. Now the Jew stared at him, looked hard into his eyes, showed little respect.

“Are you all right, Major?”

He said he was well, and yet could not meet the penetrating gaze of the Jew.

“You were far away; were you listening to me?”

He had listened.

“You are, Major, as I am told it, a decorated and experienced officer. Served in Syria, a fine record there. Perhaps finance and mineral extraction are alien to you – perhaps.”

He could deny that. He needed to show himself to be well on the ladder and advancing towards the highest rungs. He knew the question that would follow and never answered it whether it came from a stranger, the Jew, or from his family, even his father, the former brigadier general.

“How was it there? As bad as we assume, or worse?”

He said, seemingly offhand and bland, that it was a necessary act of policy and the commitment had suited the state at that time, that it was finished and not to be pecked over.

“I hope it was for some purpose… You found it hard, saw bad things? Was your role dangerous, did…?”

Lavrenti slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t fucking talk about it. Don’t.”

And he stood, and faced the Jew. The man showed no astonishment at the sudden, unprompted explosion. If he then had doubts as to the wisdom of putting his protection in this officer’s hands, relying on protection under this officer’s roof, he made no sign of it… What was not said was sufficient to deflate Lavrenti.

“Well, Major, you have much to think of, and no doubt would be pleased to have time to consider a response. What a privilege to have met you. No hurry, nothing immediate is required, maybe in a few months…”

The cigarettes were pocketed and the Marlboro lighter. It was as if the Jew had come to a car showroom and had browsed and looked at brochures, then decided that he did not like what he saw, would go elsewhere, but without wishing to cause offence. Lavrenti pushed a button on the leg of the table, at knee height. An escort would come and lead the Jew out of Lefortovo. He had never before reacted in such a way to mention of his war service in Syria, had not acknowledged the stress caused by what he had seen on one day, and what he had done on that same day. Within an hour his father would have been told and within an hour and five minutes the brigadier general, retired, would be on the phone, blaring questions and criticism at him, and he would deflect. Nothing of that day had left him, and more often his nights were spent tossing and sleepless. He went out into the corridor, locking the door behind him. He walked briskly. Uniformed men in the corridors stopped, stood sharply at attention, saluted him, and from behind open doors officers saw who passed them and called out greetings as if he were the man everybody wished to count as a friend because he owned a future. A guard at the main gate offered good wishes and asked when he would be back, but he did not answer.

In a restricted parking area, a privileged space, the car’s engine was idling, Mikki at the wheel and Boris standing by an opened rear door. They talked and laughed, and saw him. It would be a fast drive to the military airport, then all three would be on a flight, duration 150 minutes, going north to Murmansk.

He had not lost his temper in that way before, had not shown such weakness… The images clung at his throat.

They went at speed and a cloud of dust billowed behind them. Alice, petite and pretty and with her hair trailing under the rim of a combat helmet, half of her face covered against the dust and sand by a khaki scarf, and the skin below her throat masked with the shape of an armour-plated jerkin, and with trousers in olive green flapping on her legs, was with the Special Forces. She was taken into Syria, across a border marked only by a single strand of barbed wire, now long buried in dirt and sand. A few such routes, listed only on the covert maps. existed for mutual convenience.

She was driven – three vehicles and one passenger, her, with machine-guns festooned on them all – towards a sanitised but unwelcoming refugee camp where they would collect a guide for further incursion. The escort had given her headphones and a face microphone so she could communicate, but remarks were kept to a minimum because her business was not for sharing, and procedures in this hostile environment were best kept private. It was ‘wild west country’ and the warlords of Syrian militia and the Americans and the Russians ruled the ground along with the Hereford people. There had been times when the British would have met up with Russians from their Spetsnaz teams, cans of strong beer broken open, and fags exchanged, but relations now were guarded, though the understanding of free passage along selected routes still held.