Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

“My conclusion, Knacker, with regret, is that the Matchless contact is not supportable. These are not the sort of people who could sustain the necessary actions for a mission of this risk. They should not be used. I urge you most strongly, the advice of a respectful colleague, to terminate the mission. Terminate it. You should bring back your man. That is my conclusion, Knacker. Abort him.”

“Thank you, Paulo.”

“Please, or it will be tragic, follow my advice.”

“Succinctly put. I am grateful – the trouble is that I reckon it too late. From your part of the world, Paulo, ‘the Rubicon is crossed’. Appreciate your help. Summary, don’t think I can get him back. Have to let matters take their course, and hope. Thanks again.”

He smiled to himself, pleased with what had been passed to him. They sounded the sort of people, those kids, that he would have wanted on board. Defiant, outside the tramlines of convention, bloody minded, and above all streetwise – could not have picked better. A rather jaunty step as he went inside.

The police car would have received a call.

A last piss into the undergrowth, a last disposal of rubbish, and the engine starting up. The blue lights came on over the car’s roof, and the guys inside had settled in their seats and both doors were slammed. They were off, did a sharp turn and at one point they were within ten yards of where Gaz hid. The car skidded on the stones and made a show of urgency. Gaz watched it go… had watched it for little short of an hour. Two lorries had turned in, been there five minutes, then had left. The police car accelerated, disappeared, and he was left with the emptiness that had taken hold of him before it had pitched up, like a mission failed…

He caught sight of the girl from the corner of his eye, shifted his gaze to her. She was down the lay-by from him, about fifty paces away. She stood her full height, raised her hand, clenched her fist except for the main finger, held the pose. Perhaps, in the police car, they would have had a glimpse of her in the mirror or perhaps they were already hitting the main road. She lowered her arm and began to brush the dirt and debris from her jeans and her top, and shook her head as if to dislodge any leaves or berries caught in her hair. She looked around, then down at her watch, then mouthed something which he did not hear. The gesture from the single finger showed contempt, an obscene insult, and as universal was Gaz’s reading of her lips. Could have been trakhat’ tebya , could have been fuck you , could have been anything that made her feelings clear for the ‘boys in blue’. She tilted her head and stared in front and behind and seemed for a moment to stamp in frustration. Her jeans were stained in mud below the knees and her footwear was pathetically unsuitable for traipsing across country. Her hair was blonde and tangled; she seemed to curse… and then she whistled.

The boy came. Gaz understood. She had come through the trees to the lay-by but had hidden while the police were there, had seen them off, had looked around her, had raked the cover with her eyes, and was annoyed because she had not found what she searched for, and had whistled to summon the boy. He was scrawny, pale, muddy, and he had hair cut short. She lectured him. A wide gesture, waving her arm across the empty expanse of the lay-by and then her hands slapped her thighs as if to emphasise her irritation… seemed to say this was the place, and… seemed to say that it had failed… and started to flounce. The boy stayed calm. Glanced at his watch, pursed his lips, would have accepted they had been late, shrugged. Perhaps the boy reckoned time, early or late, was less relevant than her response.… She stood with her hands on her hips, small and defiant and angry. He was quieter and calmer, and took a big breath.

One word, shouted at the emptiness of the lay-by. “ Matchless. ”

Gaz pushed himself up, responded: “ Matchless. ”

Small birds were pecking at the policemen’s food wrappers, but his shout, and Gaz’s answer, scattered them and they squawked and flew. He had not yet shown himself, was still wary. When he stepped forward that was the ultimate moment of vulnerability, no going back. And, they could have been turned, and could have had a better offer, and could have fifty FSB gooks in full combat gear poised to jump on him…

The boy shouted, fair enough English, “If you are here, stranger, and you answer to the word, Matchless , then show yourself and we can get the fuck out. We are late. We have hiked ten klicks. There is a block on the road at Titovka. To go beyond Titovka you must have a special permit and your documentation is checked. We left the wheels at Titovka and came through this forest – fucking awful. One last time, are you here, are you not here? We are not staying… here or not here?”

Every move he made during his years with the regiment had been planned. Every eventuality was considered. Backup always existed. The whole business was chaos, and he was an idiot for accepting the arm twisting, and… He stood up, parting the low fronds and branches of dwarf birch. He stepped forward.

He spoke in English, “I think it is me that you are supposed to meet.”

So chaotic that it seemed pitiful to talk in the code of a professional. He walked towards them. A basic law, one that he did not ignore, was to remember that they were not his friends. They were just part of the deal that Knacker had cobbled together. No hugs and no kisses, no small talk. A formal handshake, the girl first and then the boy, and her grip was firmer than the boy’s, and they had names. He was Timofey. She was Natacha. Who was he? Good question. He paused, hesitated and wondered how great a confidence he should give them.

Crisp but quiet. “I am Gaz… Thank you for coming.”

She said, “Nobody thought about the block at Titovka. Titovka is where the army has a garrison. We had to go around the block. We thought of taking a car, hot-wiring it, driving it up here. Would have done but could not see a car to give us that possibility. We go through all shit to get here. It is a closed zone, a security zone. Nobody told us that we had to enter it, we found for ourselves. I ask you, are your people incompetent?”

When he went back, if he did, Gaz promised himself that he would repeat the challenge of this girl, Natacha. Would like to see faces tighten, lips compress, all the things that bosses did when criticised, and the biggest insult was an accusation of incompetence.

Gaz said, “Probably, most days, they do their best.”

They both laughed in his face. He was asked if he could go through the forest and the bog, where there was no road, whether he would manage rough ground. Poker-faced, he said that he thought he could, would try. The girl led and was light-footed and set a pace. Neither wore the correct clothing or shoes, yet he struggled to keep up with them. Both possessed strength that came from tilting against the state’s windmills, the bloody-minded obstinacy required to survive on the basement of society, and the arrogance that came from being unbeaten… He knew the young tearaway kids in the Creggan and in the villages up on the hills of east Tyrone, and the ones who would have thought themselves indestructible when they had gone down the road from the village in Syria. It gave Gaz a level of confidence just trying to catch up with the girl and keep the boy from clipping his ankles. He would not be the one who needed to stop and gasp and regain composure, would make sure it was one of them. But he had a question, and it needed answering.

“What’s the motive for you in helping me? Because of the old family link, and sleeping but being loyal to an old promise. Is it that?”