Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

The old man called the officer ‘sir’. Showed respect for his rank and his uniform, demonstrated nervousness. Gaz thought the plastic blindfold had slipped enough for the officer to see the chair in front of him, and if he could see the chair then he could see the faces; perhaps good thinking of Timofey’s father to address him with deference. In the briefing rooms of the Forward Operating Bases, they often talked of ‘collateral’. The prospect of collateral damage should not stand in the way of achieving success in an end-game. Collateral was an acceptable risk in Helmand and in central Syria on the basis that the perpetrators would be long gone, well clear before the damage kicked in… worrying about collateral was for the squeamish. The officer would know the faces of those who had taken him if his blindfold had slipped. It seemed to have done… the officer knew in what direction he should go as Gaz manoeuvred him towards the chair.

The chair had a tubular metal frame, a hard seat, and a straight back. Was there rope in the apartment? There was not. Was there powerful adhesive tape? There was not. Were there more plastic bags? A handful were brought out from under the sink, some filled with rubbish. Gaz set the officer down in the chair. His head tracked Gaz as he crossed in front of him. Gaz lifted the officer’s arms behind his back and eased them behind his spine, and with a bag smelling of rotting vegetables tied the knot, fastened his arms to the chair. He was uncertain as to the reaction of the kids if the officer lashed out with his polished shoes, caught Gaz in the head or the stomach or the groin, disabled him. Might pile in and save the day, or might back off, or might free the officer and push him out of the door and slam it, shut themselves away from the arrival of ‘collateral’. Best done himself. Did it from the side and the officer would have known that Gaz’s face and belly and privates were beyond kicking reach. He tied both ankles to one chair leg.

Gaz reached at the officer’s face, caught at a corner of the bag used as a gag and tugged it clear. There was spitting, coughing, a near choke, and then quiet. Gaz told the kids to get the officer a glass of water. Again, work for the old man. A tap was run, glass swilled out. The father used the hem of his shirt to dry the glass. The water was brought and Gaz saw that the father’s hand shook and water slopped from the glass and some spilled on the officer’s trousers, and he was addressed again as sir and the water was held to his lips. The glass tilted, too much and too fast, more water was spilled and the father grovelled.

Timofey asked, “What now?”

“I look for time, not much.”

Natacha’s question. “How much time?”

“Until I am ready, that much time.”

The officer could have spoken, did not. Gaz assumed that FSB went on the same courses as his own crowd. This was a situation described by the colour sergeants as ‘arse pucker time’ – so tight a flea wouldn’t get in. He would have been taught to say nothing until he had a clear view of his captors’ competence, and attempt little until he had a comprehension of their qualities: would hide behind the blindfold and would absorb… Would have heard the old man’s grovelling acknowledgement of his rank. Would have heard the kids demand to be told the schedule. Gaz wondered if, yet, he had an inkling. He went to the window. He put the pistol under the belt in the back of his trousers.

Gaz saw the huge monument high on the hill and thought of it with the same respect he had for the memorial to the dead of two World Wars in the centre of the village where Bobby and Betty Riley had brought him up. They went there every anniversary Sunday for the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. No enmity towards their veterans, Russia’s dead, and would have been ashamed of himself if he had felt hostility. Saw the length of the flight-deck of the old aircraft carrier that had limped down the North Sea and English Channel, past Gibraltar and across the Mediterranean, and he had seen Sukhoi–33 attack aircraft – NATO codename Flanker – roaming in the skies over Syria when they had taken off from the geriatric craft. Saw the church where he’d mingled with the funeral party and been shown politeness and consideration and a priest had smiled at him. Saw the back section of the cut-out conning tower… and glimpsed a small cloud of smoke cresting over a tangle of low masts, and knew a boat prepared to get out into the main navigation channel. Saw nothing that was not a distraction. He looked higher, away to the west.

The early sunlight fell on horizons of gradually rising hills, no tower blocks, no pylon lines, no industrial chimneys, only the expanse of tundra. He remembered how it had been when he had crossed a part of it on foot, running with the kids, and more of it when they had circled the roadblock and reached the car. Behind him, the old man gave the officer more water, whining, with a drunk’s slur, his apologies. It was the only way that Gaz thought worth considering… and how to get a prisoner, young and fit, desperate and trussed, on to that landscape. He scratched in his brain for detail. It was a bleak view confronting him, and with no charity: there had been no charity in any of the theatres he’d worked.

He owed it, and the debt had a millstone’s weight. He turned away from his view of the wilderness.

The bear, Zhukov, had come forward and now had its weight on its buttocks and lower back and half of its stomach fur was exposed and one of its front legs was raised above its throat.

Jasha had seen it emerging from its cover. He had not taken the rifle from the wall but knew how long he would need to reach it, and how long it would take to arm it, and his dog lay supine on its sacking bed and growled quietly. Jasha had lived for long enough in the cabin – with no company but that of a dog – to know all the sounds made by animals, large and small, shy and bold. He knew those indicating anger and those that meant an animal was challenged and he should back off, and those when a creature crossed boundaries and regarded him as a companion. He recognised that Zhukov made the same sound, with a chilling and dangerous intensity, as when he had had the wire around its foot and his flesh had been growing over the barbs.

Using his binoculars, the hunter located the source of the bears pain. One leg was a full fifteen centimetres shorter than the one with the long yellow claws and with the roughened dark pads that made the identifying footprint. He studied the stump and his eyes roamed slowly over the skin that had weathered and strengthened. When Zhukov moved, he employed a rolling gait, like that of a bow-legged peasant. There was little grace but his speed was undiminished. In the last days the creature had kept back from him, had stayed hidden, but had tracked him. Jasha had only seen this behaviour once before. When Zhukov had been in intense pain from the wire he had followed and stayed hidden, but had kept company with the hunter. What the binoculars found, Jasha reckoned, was a fencer’s staple. He estimated it to be some five centimetres from point to arch, and almost entirely lodged in the stump. It surprised him that the bear could not put the stump in its mouth and use its teeth to extract it. The bear, Zhukov, did not know how to be free of it… He had come to Jasha for help.

He thought the bear weighed perhaps 350 kilos. On its hind legs it would have stood at more than two metres. With either front leg it could break Jasha’s neck with a casual blow. With one slash of the claws it could disembowel him. With its teeth, old and as darkened as those of a habitual nicotine smoker, it could bite off his head. It was a wild creature; stories of bonding and friendship were few and far, mostly lies or delusions. His aid was required. He removed his binoculars, and pondered. The dog had not moved, not even a flick of the tail.