Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

The old sniper had needed to be certain in his judgements: distance, wind speed, identity of targets – and then act on the evidence displayed. He was not a man of self-doubt. Jasha always used the same route into Murmansk. Climbing the hill before the last drop down to the hotel, he had seen them. A young man with the pallor of a city kid from a tower block, a girl with a stream of blonde hair flying as she skipped over rocks, and a man who Jasha would have said was a soldier. Had seen them among the trees and rocks and heading towards the road below the Titovka roadblock. Had seen them in a small car, a moving wreck, that had struggled up a hill. Had seen the driver clearly, and the ‘soldier’ had been beside him and the girl had been sprawled in the back. Had recognised them… They followed, up to the lights where he was held, a black saloon BMW 5 series, two men in the front in civilian clothes and he thought a uniformed officer in the back, but it had tinted windows. He added together all he’d seen: sufficient to distract him from selling pelts and trophies. He hurried to the supermarket wanted to be home where he had no involvement, was no part of a mystery.

The girl whistled, a sad tune, and Gaz thought her more bored than miserable – and uncomfortable perched on top of the boy’s father.

“He makes it difficult for you, yes?”

“He is my father.”

“And is a danger to you.”

“I don’t slit his throat. My father, yes.” Timofey jabbed Gaz’s rib. “You know about what they call ‘sleepers’, do you?”

Gaz said, “I know little about anything, best for me.”

“You know that a ‘sleeper’ waits, looks to each stranger who comes close?”

“I would not know, not my business to know.”

“Since my grandfather handed to my father, then it was given to me.”

“All beyond my reach, not relevant to me.”

“Where you come from, in the office there, did many people know of the sleepers, my family. Were we talked of?”

“Outside my orbit – but I doubt it.”

“Would people, in that office, have cared about us?”

Gaz weighed him. He was young, had a pretty girl in tow, was a self-employed dealer and probably supplied satisfied customers, and bought wholesale narcotics, and had no politics but dreamed of wealth. Was not stupid, had an obstinacy that came from intelligence… would believe in the right to be told truths and lies would fall flat.

Gaz said, “It depends what you want to hear.”

“What is real. I want to hear that.”

“You were not discussed. Do they care? Do they care whether you succeed with what is asked of you? Absolutely, all rooting for you. Do they care what happens to you afterwards, after the mission? Perhaps, if they think you may be useful for another waking in the future: if so, they will hope you go back to sleep and keep out of sight until the next time. Perhaps if they do not imagine that you will be useful in the future, then they will not care, and there will have been steps taken to manufacture a screen of deniability. They are good at using agents with whom they can deny association. It is the trade they are a part of. What I do is not for my monarch, my country: I do my duty as a minor figure. I was a witness. The duty of a witness is to set right a wrong. You understand me?”

“A little, friend, I understand a little of you. Do they care about you?”

He remembered the force of the rain pummelling his bungalow on Westray, and remembered the battering of the wind and the singing in the wires, and remembered the hunched figure on the gravel of his front path. They would have had a file on the levels of his disability, and then they had soft-soaped Aggie: never a chance to refuse.

“I want to believe that they do, but I am secondary to the greater good of the many. Listen, Timofey, we do not turn down what is put before us, we are the willing Joes, we are hooked on the narcotic of it. Why should they care? Bad news? Go and have a coffee in a canteen, then move on. They are good at that, moving on.”

“I appreciate the honesty. I enjoy this. To take risk is an addiction, and…”

Timofey hit the brake. The little Fiat swerved, skidded, squealed and came to a stop six inches from the vehicle in front, a builder’s van with the back door flapping, and one working tail-light. Natacha’s whistling died. Two cars in front had also stopped abruptly. Nobody complained. No driver lowered his window and exposed a fist to the rain and gave a finger towards the stationary black saloon. What sort of imbecile shouted obscenities at a car, chauffeur-driven, that carried one of the city’s élite? In front of them, traffic rounded the stationary car and gave it a wide berth as a rear passenger door opened. They were in front of a bar, rubbish on the pavement outside its door, weeds growing between the slabs, and graffiti was writ large. Gaz saw the target step out, say something over his shoulder to his goons, then head for the entrance.

A big television screen was showing a football match and in an alcove pop music played off speakers, no one spoke. He’d pushed open the door, paused then heard it clatter shut behind him; the volume from the football was big and the music too loud, and nobody spoke.

He wore uniform. Was Federal’nya sluzhba bezopasnosti , had advantages, privileges, authority that no other person in this dreary bar possessed. The men, some standing and some sitting, hung their heads, held silence and did not wish to challenge him with a direct glance. He imagined some had been mid-sentence, and some had been laughing at a joke. Glasses were held tight as though this stranger might snatch them away. His medal ribbons were bright on his uniform. There might have been veterans among the drinkers, and there might even have been fathers of infantry men stationed at Titovka, returned from a town in Syria as he had arrived. No one spoke to him. Fag-ends on the floor were examined in detail, the football was ignored and no feet tapped the heavy-duty vinyl to the beat of the music. A girl was behind the bar, and concentrated on polishing glasses.

He would get no greeting, no momentary friendship here. In Moscow, if he drank, it would be in cocktail bars. In Syria, if he drank, it would be in the sanctity of the officers’ mess and surrounded by other FSB personnel. When he was in Murmansk he would drink in restaurants, occasionally, and in hotel bars if he were forced to entertain prominent civilians. He did not know this place nor anything like it.

He looked for company, and would not find it. He carried enough rubles in his wallet to have bought the bar’s entire customer base a round of drinks and then keep them in alcohol for the rest of the evening. Behind the bar, above a shelf of bottles containing differing makes of vodka, was a portrait photograph of the President. He, Lavrenti, was a chosen one, and not another man in the confines of the bar could claim that rank. He looked around him. If any had met his glance, had offered him a vestige of a smile, they would have been on his tab and bought a drink. But he had no takers. They would have thought him an enemy… He was the son of his father, examined with suspicion. He ordered a drink.

The girl did not hurry but turned slowly, and reached up for a bottle – the Stoli brand – and poured for him. Not a generous measure. He paid, change was put on the counter. He thought he was over-charged.

Neither Mikki nor Boris had followed him in. He would have challenged the girl if either had been close to him. A frisson of fear… he drank, slapped down the glass and asked for it to be refilled. Still no voices around him, only the football commentary and the music at the back of the bar: he saw there, lit, a photograph of the lost Kursk , a vase of faded plastic flowers beneath it. He needed to drink – fuck them, fuck them all – and leaned on the bar.