Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Gaz had sat in the vehicle, eyes closed and body still, and used known techniques for relaxation. There was a tap on his arm. The Norwegian to see him on his way. Gaz had no complaint that he had not seen Knacker, nor that Fee stood back and was half masked by the trees and did not speak and did not wave. No one in the regiment, about to climb up the ramp of a Chinook or scramble into a Special Forces vehicle and head off towards the sharp bit, wanted chaff talk that fogged concentration. He hooked the small rucksack over his shoulder. A change of clothes was in his bag but he was now in combat and camouflage gear and his only weapons were a flash-and-bang, and a pepper spray and a single smoke grenade. His clothing was sanitised, all labels removed and – if caught – he was expected to keep his mouth shut for thirty-six hours which would give time for what he knew to be buried, disguised. It was said within thirty-six hours, if you blundered into a patrol anywhere, here or Syria or the Province, the captors would realise the significance of who they had. After thirty-six… not worth thinking about, and the stuff he carried was for escape, creating diversion and chaos and having the bottle to break and run. But that, too, was chaff.

The Norwegian was older than Gaz – grizzled beard, cropped hair, slim and tall and fit. He led the way, carrying the small plastic bag that contained the animal hair. Gaz did not turn to see if Knacker and Fee watched him go. When they had worked out from the Forward Operating Base in Syria, and the same in Afghanistan, the Sixers always stayed back and the contacts were brought to them in a secure place. He assumed that Knacker was, in their books, a proven Russia expert, but would have bet that he had never been there. Might have looked out across country and at watch-towers, might have peered through high-powered lenses at an expanse of treetops, might have watched distant cars on the move… the Sixers were supposed to stay safe.

In a low voice, barely more than the sound of the wind in the leaves and on the fronds of the pines, the Norwegian explained why he carried the animal hair, and why he had with him a square metre of heavy leather. Made sense to Gaz. They were at the edge of the tree line. The fence was thirty yards of open ground in front of him. The Norwegian held his arm as if he did not want him to charge, not until he was pushed forward. From under his coat he produced two metal discs, each the size of a large Frisbee.

“I won’t see you again, friend, but I wish you well. It is right that you come out another way because this is a valuable place and should not be abused. You are like a bear. A bear does not recognise a political barrier. Goes to it, assesses, crosses it and has a coat that is strong, and protects it. We believe we know the patrol pattern and that this is a good time. You cross. You run after returning to me what is mine, and you do not stop. You go across the patrol track, then right and you will see a tree, quite tall, killed by a lightning strike. Beyond it, on lower ground, is a small lake. You take the left side of it and will see an animal track that veers to the right and you follow it, and you come to the road. That is the main highway from Kirkenes to Murmansk. On the far side, going down a little hill, is a picnic site, a pull-in behind the trees. There used to be benches there when the idea was to develop cross-border relations and have a friendly place for Russians and Norwegians to stop, take a pee, eat, then drive on. It is not used now because relationships have changed, changed considerably. You do not expect charity there, friend, but it is where you will meet your people. I wish you well. You are ready?”

“Ready.”

The Norwegian glanced at his watch, stood erect, listened. Gaz heard only the light patter of rain and the wind blowing in treetops, was passed the sheet of hard leather, and breathed hard, and considered. Then, with no ceremony, he was pushed in the shoulder and went forward, stumbled, regained his balance… and realised he was at war, a lowly and deniable trooper, lurching towards a frontier barrier. A few strides and the fence was in front of him. The ethos of his former unit was to merge and blend, to observe and note, to slip away and report. What action was taken was not his responsibility. Did as he was told, obeyed orders and it was for others to decide what use was made of the information he provided. He did not pilot a drone strike and did not nestle a sniper’s rifle against his shoulder. He did not have to look into the faces of the relatives or the comrades-in-arms of those whose lives were snatched because of the reconnaissance he was expert at. Comforting? Sometimes… What he had often hidden behind was the screen of professionalism. Like now. Like getting across open grass, thick and tufted, and seeing the fence looming high over him and razor wire strands up to his waist, and among them tumbler alarm wires, then four more stands, then short crossbars on each post and attached to them was more wire that projected a foot on each side. The concrete posts holding the barrier were solid and newly made. Saw that, and saw the ploughed strip beyond the fence where footprints would show, and he’d not have the time to smooth the dirt and lose the shape of his boots in the ground. Then a vehicle track, and patrols would be alerted by the tumbler wires, then the sanctuary of the tree line… No time to consider the finer points of ethics… A last thought and not of Aggie, not of Aggie taking a picnic with him on the cliff edge, but of the girl, and her scarred face, who had come to encourage him and the contempt in her voice when he’d explained his role, what he did and what he did not do. He heaved the sheet of hard leather over the wires’ cutting edges at the top of the fence, and jumped. The fence rocked, and he swung his legs.

A hissing voice, urgent, behind him. “Go. Keep going.”

They were thrown from behind him. Done expertly, landing not by chance but from a practised drill. Two metal pieces, the size of dinner plates, lay on the undisturbed ploughed strip.

He landed. The fence was violated, the wire loosened and sagged. Professionalism kicked in, like he had not been away two years, sitting in the shadows, agonising over his past. By now the alarms would be chorusing and lights flashing. He stretched forward with his right leg and put his boot on to the nearer metal plate and felt it sink, and stepped on to the second, and balanced and rocked and crouched and reached to pick up the first and threw it, and saw it fly well above the drooping fence. The Norwegian was on the far side of the wire, freeing the leather, and starting to scatter the hairs from his plastic bag, long and coarse. Gaz did the last stride and was beyond the ploughed strip and turned and groped for the second plate, and could see that the imprint it left was that of a huge beast with claw indents that went down a quarter of an inch. Clever and simple, and good enough for a cursory check. He threw the second plate over the fence and the Norwegian scurried to pick it up, and was gone. Left behind was the buckled fence, the traces of brown bear hairs impaled on the barbs and also the creature’s prints.

Gaz ran. Went fast for the tree line. Head down, searching for stones on which to land, and rock where he would not leave a trail. Kept running, and veered to the right as he had been told. Saw the tree. Dark, bare, dead, it seemed scorched as if the lightning had burned all sap and life from it. He headed for it… tried to gain strength to fight the fear that welled. Had dismissed the girl with her goats, and Aggie who was bent on rescuing him, and even Debbie who was a good kid and sorely tried and whom he had hit. He thought of the target, the officer who had come to the village.

Delta Alpha Sierra, the sixth hour