Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Fee said, “Truth is, best will in the world, this has been a right shambles. This is ‘piss-up in a brewery’ stuff. I’m not listing them, but it had no right to work for us.”

Alice said, “Looks like he’s going to be dead or banged up in a cell. That’s worse than a shambles.”

“Too rushed.”

“Never had a chance. Sensible to be a rat.”

“Knacker’ll be out on his neck. We’ll get a billet somewhere. Keep our heads down, and mouths shut.”

They held hands, had lost sight of the fishing boat.

Fee said, “And our boy, he wasn’t wonderful, was he? Pretty ordinary.”

Alice said, “If he’d had the balls he’d have plugged that fucker, Volkov. That’s what it was all about. Sending a message to allies and friends in Syria, little people on the ground. There would have been a right old jump-up of pleasure in every Jordan refugee camp when word spread that a Russian, an officer, a war criminal, had gone off to the big gulag in the sky. But he bottled it.”

Fee grimaced. “Know what’s worst, poppet? Having wet ankles. I hate wet ankles.”

“That flight out?”

“Two hours till check-in. We go, whether or not Knacker’s back from safari.”

Alice bit at a lip, distorted a pretty face. “Be a rat, get along the hawser, be safe and have a life… Come on.”

They scurried away, headed for the safe house and a change of clothes, and a whisky. Not their fault that it had fouled.

The seas would be difficult once the fishing boat was clear of the hills on either side of the inlet. They made the harbour at Kirkenes a haven in the poorest weather. Out beyond the twin headlands and the island of Kjelmoya, uninhabited and ribbed with granite strips, was the Barents Sea. Few would treat the open water lightly, certainly not the men who had experience of the northern gales, winter and summer. On the fishing boat, among the four of them, there had not been a rancorous debate as to whether to leave Kirkenes as the weather closed and the visibility shortened. All of them were from families that had sailed from the Shetland islands on the bus routes to the Norwegian coast, and had only gone in winter because then the perpetual darkness gave protection from air attack, but those months were the most savage in terms of mountainous swell and the force of the gales. They were fuelled up and the engineer had pronounced himself satisfied that the engine would – if God blessed them – survive what the elements threw at them. Everything on deck that could be loosened by the pitch of the boat was strapped down. They would not use the radio, would give no indication of their route to the Harbour-Master’s Office, but before casting off had spoken about heading for the Norwegian ports of Alesund and Bergen far to the south. The radio would not be used again and the predicted bad weather would reduce their footprint both in terms of satellite imagery and shore-based radar.

Why?… None would have been clear in giving an answer. All were men of few words. Each of them, if challenged would have grimaced, would have gazed from a porthole or out of the reinforced wheel-house windows, would have looked anywhere other than into the eyes of the questioner. Then an answer of sorts… ‘Because it’s what sea people do, who sea people are.’ It would be a big moment when they were clear of the inlet, the hills lost in the mist and the cloud behind them, and the decks glistening with water from the rain and the spray off the crests. The skipper would swing the wheel and they would go to starboard and catch the gusts and be shaken and rocked. The boat would lurch and swing and waves would hammer it. It would be a gesture.

“Don’t fucking shoot. Lower the fucking rifle.”

Mikki would have said, under any circumstances, having a rifle aimed at him, and an eye squinting over sights was an unhappy place to be. He could barely breathe and his mind had lost coherent thought. They had run but neither had helped the other. Supposed to be the best of friends, men who would stand together in whatever front line confronted them . . . had been ‘each for himself’ in headlong flight. He had fallen, tripped on roots and stones and fallen and Boris had raced past him, had not stopped to heave him up. And Boris had slumped and had been holding his guts, but Mikki had left him and gone on ahead. Where was the bear? Mikki had no idea. A full ten minutes before he had shouted back at Boris. Had he seen the bear? Seen the bear in the last kilometre? A guttural response from his long-time friend, future business partner; had not seen it. Had he heard the bear? More gasps and more coughing to get air down into the lungs. Had not heard it… Might not have seen it and might not have heard it, but Mikki would not advocate standing still, cocking his head, straining his ears and gazing into the rain… looking for the bear, listening for it. So, he had kept running, and Boris had chased after him.

They were near the wire, in the last line of stubby fir trees. He would be from the border guard. He held a shiny new rifle, and aimed it. Mikki stood, statue-still. Boris cannoned into him, jolted him, then saw the guard and the rifle.

Boris had an arm out, leaned on Mikki. Croaked at the militia kid. “Point that fucking thing somewhere else, boy.”

The ‘boy’, a conscript far from home, soaked and cold, and likely no food or drink provided, and told some shit story about an officer taken prisoner, kidnapped, dragged towards the border, might have thought a NATO armoured division was running escort, and might have his safety lever up and might have it down. Mikki said, trying to find authority, that he was putting a hand in his pocket and would take out his identification card. And did so, and held it up so that the boy could see it. The kid looked scared, not half as scared as he’d have been if he had first dropped his rifle and then had that fucking bear coming after him… only one foot at the front end of it, just a stump, but the other foot had claws that could have sliced him to spaghetti lengths. And now he might be shot by a kid.

Mikki said, “Aim it somewhere else, kid, or I’ll eat your dick off – see if I don’t.”

They were taken to an officer. Mikki’s mind went at flywheel speed. What to say, what to tell? Both spoke.

“I am the driver…”

“I am the bag carrier…”

“For FSB officer, Major Lavrenti Volkov. He was kidnapped this morning.”

“We are both FSB personnel. Immediately we reported to the Prospekt. We had information…”

“From an informant, that the foreign agent would attempt to cross the frontier…”

“Do that at this location. Take the major with him. Why you are deployed…”

To the complicated part. The officer barked into a handset, relayed what he was told.

“We had weapons.”

“Had drawn FSB weapons.”

“Were following, had a sight of them.”

“Fired a single shot, put down the foreign agent, dead or wounded.”

“But…”

“We were fired on ourselves…”

“Almost killed – had to drop our weapons, then…”

“A bear chased us…”

“A brown bear… Major Volkov is behind us. We could not stop to wait for him.”

“Because of the bear.”

The officer left them, went to his truck and his communications.

Mikki said to Boris, “That was fucking awful.”

Boris said to Mikki, “Fucking awful and worse.”

“They won’t credit us until he comes.”

Kneeling, hidden, Lavrenti watched the squirming performance of the two who had been tasked by his father to protect him, and had failed. It no longer mattered to him. Could tell from the shifting feet and fidgeting hands and slumped shoulders that the buck was being passed. He saw an officer take charge. Men were despatched, and it was necessary for Lavrenti to lie flatter, stay still, as they pounded away noisily on the path close to where he hid. They would find where the British corporal had been shot and, in spite of the deluge of the rain, there would still be blood, though thinner. That would initiate the chase… and nothing he could do would alter it. On other matters his mind was clear, sharp. Almost ready, and still at peace with himself. He would have liked one more chance to speak with the corporal, regretted that he was denied the opportunity. Would have liked the chance to speak with the kids who had likely wrecked their lives by following in the wake of the corporal’s escape; for excitement and to imitate something out of the movies. He had only paused once when he had gone up the last hill before the tree line, had followed the pair of them, the idiots on his father’s payroll, and had looked back and seen the two kids, the girl and her boy, struggling to lift him and then beginning to go back the way they had come. Alive, but almost certainly dying. The corporal had affected the kids as he had affected Lavrenti. Only a few more minutes, on his knees or on his stomach, and sheltered from the rain, and then he would move.