Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

He could remember how Zhukov had seemed to wake from the sedation long before the bear had regained partial use of its limbs. A baleful eye, no love, no gratitude, but what he judged to be a degree of magnificent tolerance, and he had thrown the wire, its barbs still holding flesh and fur, high into a tree where it could not again hurt the beast. What did he want from any relationship? A fantasy of mutual respect, a sort of understanding between himself and Zhukov – a dream, but he thought it possible.

The officer leading the entourage was a combat veteran and had bright ribbons on his chest. In tow was a writer from a government propaganda agency, and the Izvestia correspondent shipped down from Kabul, and a TV news crew visiting from Leningrad. Jasha, the sniper, was weak, his voice soft, and he would have spoken through sagging breath. He told the microphone and the notebook and the officer’s flushing face, that the war was a bloody waste of conscripts’ lives, and that the talk of ultimate victory was a combination of imagination and lies. If the wounds on his leg had not been still bloody through the dressings he would have received a stinging slap across his unshaven cheeks. They moved on sharply, scrambling to be clear of his bed.

More confusing to Jasha was his clear view of what he assumed to be three fugitives: a girl who wore light city footwear, and equally light city clothing and who slogged over the uneven ground and tripped on rocks and sunk in the black mud of pools: a boy behind her who cursed and swore when he fell: and between them was a man, a little older with a rucksack on his back, who stepped confidently and wore camouflage. He reckoned he was an intruder, with the kids as his guides, and had scratched for a reason before floating a possible answer. They skirted Titovka where the roadblock was placed. Why would a fit and strong man, obviously a soldier, use that sort of trash for bringing him on to Russian territory? Could not answer the question.

He had been out of the ward within half an hour and had been shut away in a broom cupboard of a room, out of sight of all other casualties, placed where he could not contaminate the faithful… The officer had been from the political security section, and would have hit him had there not been so many witnesses. The episode accelerated a terminated army career: there were no references for work – he had quit them and all they stood for, had come to Murmansk, and had holed up in the tundra, had regretted nothing. He remembered the officer’s face, had not known his name.

He fed his dog. Parboiled meat and rice he had bought in Murmansk when he had met the man who purchased his pelts and trophy heads. Intelligent? He would have shrugged but not disagreed. A sharp mind? He accepted that… accepted also that the bear, Zhukov, might be admired but not as a friend, and accepted that he had no idea why a man in camouflage was being escorted across this God-deserted territory unless the need was to avoid the Titovka block. More intriguing: who took responsibility for the stranger’s journey?

Knacker nurtured the image of the woad-painted intelligence officer who dreamed of incursion and attack, and probed for weakness. Imagined the officer behind the Wall who had the fortifications to back him, and trained troops, and who had to be lucky every time, not just once. Loved the images, and allowed the cavalcade of thoughts to include his wife, Maude, on her knees and elbows and with her rear end stuck up high and scratching and brushing… and pocketing a little peck of historic interest – done it for him, in mischief.

How to brighten the coin had seemed a problem beyond Knacker’s reach but Fee had showed him the answer on her phone, then had busied herself. A good, wholesome, noisy spit on the denarius , then it was wrapped tightly in tinfoil, then put in a Pyrex dish, and steaming water poured across it. Time now for the revelation. She did not ask him about the relevance of the coin, but humoured him, as she usually did. She picked it up from the dish, shook it, unwrapped it, dried it, rubbed it hard, and handed it to him. A little silver coin, with good clear engraving on it.

Knacker chortled in pleasure, took it and pocketed it, said, “Many thanks – always need a talisman when we have a man far from home and going farther.”

He sat in the back of the saloon, had a VIP journey to work. Lavrenti had been longer at his apartment than he had expected.

They dropped him at the main entrance on Prospekt. The car would be taken around to the back gates and parked in the yard, but he was free to go in through the grand new doors of the building. The building was huge, dominating Lenin Prospekt: it could be considered a symbol of the state’s power, displaying the strength and ability to protect the citizens of Murmansk, or one that was intended to intimidate and to demand discipline. He went inside. Would he miss the life in this Arctic city, and the work it created? He would not. On the second floor, he was met by his replacement who recognised him from a casual meeting in Moscow some months before, and walked with a tall girl, a uniformed captain, a rare female with prospects in FSB. He was close to his old office door and noticed that his name had already been replaced – a fucking insult. But before he was able to snarl a response to what was a serious kicking to his prestige, the captain spoke.

“Ah, Major, you were not able to attend our meeting. We managed without you. You were scheduled to be here.”

“What meeting?’’

“It is customary, as you well know, Major, for the departing officer to brief his successor on current investigations, where they stand, their considered priority. You were not there… I briefed.”

“I was packing my apartment. I do not recall any ‘current investigations’ that were of importance.”

She ignored his impertinence. “Hardly fair, Major. Your team have been working hard to ensure progress in several areas of criminality. We regard them as of ‘importance’. Is this only a backwater, Major?”

“I was here yesterday.”

“The meeting was for today, not yesterday.”

He realised he was ‘history’s man’ and noted that the major who would replace him wore no wedding ring, Lavrenti had once received from the captain the certainty of an invitation… had claimed that her cooking was good, that she knew a source of fine Georgian wines, had posed an invitation to her studio apartment, and had worn a blouse with a button unfastened. He had brushed her aside. It was common for male and female officers in FSB to pair off, forge relationships. She wore her dark hair short, looked superb in a combat tunic, a webbing belt holding a filled holster at a wasp waist. He had rejected her. Would have gone instead, fast, to a prostitute. The officer beside her seemed to squirm in embarrassment. The captain gazed at him.

“I have briefed, Major, on our work to combat a spike in espionage in Murmansk, and the recent…”

“What espionage?’’

“An Italian diplomat was in the city two days ago. Is now back in Moscow. Notification was on your desk, not acted on.”

“And…?”

“The border fence north of the E105 highway was crossed five hours ago. Thought to be a wandering bear that went over, but not thoroughly investigated. You were asked what you wanted as a reaction, but did not answer.”

“And – other than a fucking bear and a fucking diplomat – what else?”

“The agitation of a Kirkenes-based eco group. More protests and because of their report on Kola pollution, nuclear work from the navy, the short-term suspension of the king crab trawler trade. Because of the extent of the damage, a Norwegian boat is due in tomorrow with Norwegian stocks of the creature for restaurants in St Petersburg and Moscow. The group is attracting attention, but you know that. We talked of it.”