Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Every few minutes, the bear uttered the short and soft cry, pathetically quiet for a creature of that size. Jasha’s loneliness, self-appointed, in the wilderness was interrupted by the beast that came to him and trailed him, made demands of him. Two options faced Jasha. Living in the wilderness there were rarely opportunities to fudge an issue of importance. The same as when he had served in the treacherous beauty of Afghanistan. He either killed the enemy or he slipped away unobserved and accepted failure. Both the options were stark. He could go to the far wall of the cabin, could reach up above his dog and could lift down the old Dragunov sniper’s rifle. A single cartridge, 7.62x54R, fired at point-blank range – the same bullet could kill at 800 metres – would end the life of the bear, would close a chapter of suffering. He could then go outside, and use his hunter’s knife carefully to remove the bear’s pelt and hang it out to dry and be cleansed while he dragged away the carcase and dismembered it for easier consumption by the foxes or even have the attention of a pair of lynx. Could sell the skin via his agent in Murmansk, and get a fair price even though a front pad was missing, and be freed of the burden of having the troubled creature tracking him, entering his home and leaving his dog traumatised… The second option was both terrifying to Jasha and compelling.

For an hour or more, he would busy himself inside the cabin. The dog would be fed. He would place the tin with his worldly wealth on the table beside his military identity card. He remembered the two kids running in their ridiculous clothes across the rock and bog of the tundra, and remembered the man with them who struggled to keep pace who was military from his bearing, and they came from the frontier and the barricaded border. The memory was a distraction. He would drink tea first, and dry his eyes, and the dog would have to take its chance.

He supposed it to be a matter of trust, and a time when trust and love merged. He eyed his overflowing toolbox, and put his kettle on the ring.

From a high point, Knacker surveyed a vista.

He and the Norwegian, their vehicle left at the bottom of the slope, had trudged up a rough path and the mud from earlier rain clung to his shoes, buffed that morning by Alice.

A familiar moment for Knacker. A chance to look across what seemed an endless expanse of uniformly dull ground, a scrap of the hinterland of the Russian Federation. Never tired of it. Could have learned more by taking out a subscription to a postcard company, but it still thrilled him to have that chance to gaze towards a long horizon. There was little to learn except that the terrain seemed to be difficult and slow-going: on the side of any fugitive would be the lack of roads and trails and the clumps of granite rock and the stunted forests of dwarf birch. There was one blip on the desolation in front of him… a cluster of high-rise blocks and three industrial chimneys, grey from the smoke they poured out. The place was called Nikel. The reason for the place was the nickel-smelting ovens: seven decades before, it had been a site of ferocious combat as the advancing Germans had fought their way into the complex. Old equipment was still used. The Norwegian said the levels of pollution from sulphur dioxide were way above even Russian standards of safety. The light wind floated the smoke emissions to the south as they had for many years and there the ground had no trace of green.

Knacker said, “You are one of the cleanest and least contaminated countries in Europe and you have to exist alongside this foul mess?”

The Norwegian shrugged. “What else is possible?”

“It is immaterial to them that they poison the air, the ground, the water courses?”

“They require nickel for their armaments programmes and so they must have it, but will not pay the price of modern equipment. They do not care.”

“Do they listen to you?”

“We complain, but we are ignored. And they deny… We believe that town is inside one of the top five most poisoned locations in their country, but they say our data is ‘contrived’. They will not admit to a fault, are scared to take blame. You cannot confront them with logic and argument, but you know that.”

“That analysis, I do not disagree.”

“You have a man there? One man?”

If Fee had been with him, or Alice, they would have expected a slight smile to break on his face, and a little shrug, and a gesture that indicated a conversation straying into such confidences was unwelcome. No smile, no shrug, no gesture. He liked his companion, believed his honesty. “That’s about it.”

“And you have a target?”

“We do.”

“My knowledge of Russians – they are warm, they are generous, they are loyal in friendship, except for one fraternity.”

“They are used to being ruled. Serfs and aristocracy. They are docile. A small minority has a grip on authority.”

“And that is where your target exists, the contemporary aristocracy?”

“In the heart of it.”

“An important man, with status?”

“Not with status but a part of the apparatus. On the lower rungs of the élite. He is a target because of what happened thousands of miles from here, and when he is taken down then I gain advantage, an advantage worth chasing.”

“The man you sent… I was not able to form an opinion of him.”

“Unlikely you would: calm, responsible, quiet. Probably quite dull. No intellect but that is not required of him. Ordinary.”

“What do you look for when you search for such a man?”

“A sense of duty, but more than that. Dull and ordinary, yes. You point him in the right direction, tell him what is wanted, give him a shove and off he goes. That sort of man. Not complicated by moralities and ethics. A bit of obligation pushes him forward. Actually, this one rather needs me to regain lost pride, was on a downhill run till I showed up.”

“Manipulated?”

“Your word, not mine. Offered an opportunity when he was on the floor, had one of those bloody syndromes. Needed his self-respect burnished.”

“This ‘ordinary’ man had little chance to decline whatever you asked of him. I am sure there is no connection but on the police radio in Murmansk city there are reports of a police officer being assaulted and his personal firearm stolen from him. Any connection? But no report of a killing…”

Silence fell on them as if enough confidences, or too many, had been exchanged. Always the same, when the best laid plans were in place, the waiting. All now rested in the hands of an ‘ordinary’ man.

“I hope you have not forgotten, Gaz,” Knacker said to himself, “what he did. I hope you have nailed him. No reports of a body because it’s plastic wrapped and hidden and will not be found before you are clear of that place. You should now be sailing homewards, and I’ll meet you with a glass, bubbling furiously. Of course you won’t have forgotten what he did.”

Delta Alpha Sierra, the thirteenth hour

Gaz had resumed his hold on her arm. Occasionally, she whimpered.

She had told him, all that she had ever said to him, that one of those taken from the huddle of women was her sister. The rain seemed to have eased. Digging had started. The charred houses had been looted for tools. Gaz watched the officer.

The activity was at the football pitch. There had been little grass there and it was flat enough and there seemed a good depth of soil. They dug with spades and shovels and pickaxes and forks. Their commander leaned against a truck, and smoked. Made no contribution. The officer was growing impatient, striding along the line of Iranian militiamen, giving his orders and waving his arms in theatrical exasperation because the pit was not being excavated as fast as he wanted. It was obvious to Gaz that the officer would have had no authority over the IRGC men, would have been there as liaison only. The goons with the officer stayed back. Twice the officer turned and seemed to yell at them, perhaps demanded they put down their own weapons and go and find themselves tools and join the digging frenzy, but was ignored. Some of the perimeter men were called down from the higher ground around the village and from its recreation area and were sent to gather the bodies of those who had been shot, had been hanged, bayoneted. Gaz counted four who were brought from inside the smouldering buildings, rigid, scorched from the fire. Some of the men held handkerchiefs over their faces as they scratched at the ground. The NCOs were blistering the men for their poor work rate, and coming behind them was the Russian, and once he aimed a kick in the direction of a trooper who had dropped his spade, and held a rag in two hands over his face.