Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Part of the pleasure for her was knowing that the officer heard, understood, what awaited him. Like it would be a small piece of revenge, instituted by her, for the men who choked to death, or drowned, in the sections below the conning tower that she could see each time she looked from the apartment, and revenge for the death of her father. She could have done it, but not Timofey. She could not have relied on Timofey to do it, in what the films called ‘cold blood’. The soldier could do it… The officer had heard, had understood, and he breathed harder and his shoulders quivered and his skin had gone pale. It was a fine spade, a strong one, and she had short-changed Gaz on its purchase.

She was laughing, was happy. They climbed on the E105 highway and the ground grew more bleak and trees rarer and an expanse of rock and lakes was exposed. She thought of the killing, closed her mind to the hunt and chase that would follow.

“I cannot believe it. There has to be an explanation that is more rational.” From the major who had replaced their man, who occupied his office space on Lenin Prospekt.

Mikki and Boris received no succour from the female captain. “You say he is missing. You say he may have been kidnapped. You are two long-retired men who achieved only the rank of starshina . I say that you are juniors and were given some vanity role in protecting Major Lavrenti Volkov. Why did he need protection? Because he was the son of an influential father, or because his mother wanted him put to bed safely each night? Why?”

The replacement echoed the captain’s sneered remarks. “Are you telling us that the major has been abducted from in front of you, that you failed in whatever duty you were given, that he has been taken in a criminal enterprise, should now be listed as ‘missing’?”

“If that is the allegation you make, then the issue goes to the colonel who commands FSB in the Murmansk oblast . He will, I assure you, pass it direct and as a matter of priority to Moscow. There will then be mobilisation of all available forces, the arrival of a responsible person, the closing of the border, and a full analysis of the major’s work here.”

“And an examination of his past duties. He served in Syria and served in Moscow. All of his history over the last five years would need examination.”

“May I offer you guidance? More likely than kidnap is scandal. Open that to public examination and you have no idea where the trail leads – could be a woman of the streets, a prostitute, or could be a boy who sells sex, or could be the result of corruption of fraudulent activity and a bitch fight over the control of the rewards of a roof.”

“There are many jealousies in this service. There are those who would rejoice at the discomfort, when displayed in public, of an officer who was universally disliked.”

“So, do you wish to tell me that – in your opinions – Major Lavrenti Volkov has been kidnapped, abducted and that a substantial rescue operation should be launched? Yes?”

“And wish also that his previous work here, abroad and in Moscow, should be forensically examined in order to pinpoint motive for this crime?”

They left. Mikki murmured ‘Those fucking bastards’, and Boris muttered that ‘He should be hung up by his balls, she by her tits’. They clattered out and closed the door noisily behind them. And agreed that an audit of the major’s recent work, and at the village in Syria, would be a killer blow to the brigadier to whom both owed unquestioning loyalty.

Mikki said, “We do it ourselves.”

Boris said, “For his father, not for the little shit himself.”

Down into the bowels of the building and along a corridor running parallel to the cell block. A room where the noise of the adjacent heating boilers in winter could deafen a man. In the room, housing the computer’s heart and backed up by a considerable archive library, were the recordings from the cameras surrounding the building’s perimeter. Neither had the authority to have the clerks run through recorded footage, but it was demanded. There had been a drunk at the gate. Accusations slurred. A demand for an officer. Yelling about denouncing criminals. A young man coming from across the road, and speaking with respect and politeness, carting the man away. And a similar young man at a bar, and… the picture was found. A blown-up print of his face was made.

Also in the basement area was the armoury. Two assault rifles, 100 rounds for each, two pistols with belt holsters and fifty rounds of ammunition for each, a pair of smoke grenades and also the flash-and-bang type, two bulletproof vests, a set of field dressings. They possessed identification cards, and were well known in the armoury because of their trips to firing ranges – anything to break the boredom. They should have had additional authorisation, at least the signature of Major Lavrenti Volkov… but it was a matter of urgency and they were persuasive, and there was talk of ‘someone coming within the hour to provide the necessary confirmation’. They were gone. The weapons went into the BMW’s boot.

They went back to the bar where the little shit had insisted on going for a drink. They wore their ID cards hanging on lanyards, and their FSB caps and armbands and had the holsters on their belts, and Boris had loaded the magazines while Mikki had driven. The bar was not yet open, and the owner was deep in paperwork, and they started to kick the door in. Had demanded the recording from the camera behind the bar. Prevarication at first and claim that there was no camera, so Boris had gone behind the counter and had seen the lens wink at him and had cleared half a shelf of bottles onto the floor where they broke, and would have started on the second half, but the manager had darted into his office and had set up the recorder and the link to the screen. They saw the film, froze it on the kid who had come in to buy vodka, then had the image printed… and kept going until they had a decent shot of the stranger who had walked in with the kid. Had that printed also… and they were gone.

Police headquarters was next on their list of destinations, time running, and no loitering. Police were secondary in Murmansk, or anywhere in the Federation, to FSB. Only showed the picture of the boy: keen eyes that were set deep, fair hair cut short and pushed forward, a strong nose and thin lips and a jaw that seemed to show a lack of compromise, a show of defiance – similar to 1001 boys in the city who were addicted to small-time robbery, pickpocketing, narcotics dealing. Always, in a criminal records archive, there was a keen little beggar who had no value other than being able to match printouts of faces to files. All done fast, and either of them might have given the guy a kiss on each cheek if it had not been for his acne. He was Timofey and there was a family name… and a bonus: a secondary file was produced and a photograph and name. Natacha, pretty little thing and familiar in a vague way, and then a larger bonus. There had been a robbery the previous night. A girl had ‘deceived’ a police officer in his patrol car, a firearm had been stolen, but the girl’s hair was not blonde. ‘‘Try a fucking wig,’’ Boris had said. Mikki had said, ‘‘It’s a good word that, ‘deceived’. Tell him to keep his bits inside his trousers.’’ Gone again. An address poached from criminal intelligence, that of a small-time drugs dealer and his girl.

They found an old man lying in his own vomit. Would have smacked him around had it been necessary. It was not. Behind them the door hung at an angle from one hinge.

Shown the chair where the shit had been tied. The identity of the foreigner confirmed, and talk of the man coming in through the border and being met… and the pleading that he, the old man, be treated with clemency. And he told them how far ahead of them were the fugitives… They were going to kill the major, that too was thrown at them in the hope of additional clemency. They did not do arguments, nor debates, did not dispute. Could they handle it? Could handle anything, and Boris had heard the brigadier’s shock when Syria and disgrace were spoken of… and investigators would be crawling over his history, maggots on old meat.