He tapped the major’s shoulder. Gaz did not fancy himself as a speaker. He had said a few tongue-tied words from the dock, had addressed the magistrate’s bench and made a piss-poor job of it, and his hands had shaken and the bench would have noted that he was no longer a fighting man.
No argument. The major moved. Ahead was a plateau of ground, carpeted in low birch, in full leaf, and dotted with green patches marking bogs, and there were reflections off little lakes, and dotted over the landscape were rock formations. They had a path of sorts to follow. It would be the same route as he had taken when he had come across. He glanced at his watch: anywhere else but here the light would be failing and the comfort of evening and darkness would be around him – not this far into the Circle. It would have been good to have had darkness, but he was not that blessed. His immediate target was higher ground, in a tree line, and the tree – taller than the rest – that had taken the lightning strike. First was the open ground. He had heard no helicopters nor the dawdling engine of a drone, and no sirens.
He turned, and gave a cursory wave to the kids. They were woken sleepers and he owed them nothing and they were paid, more handsomely than intended, and had made their own bed. Without them he would have blundered… but they were not friends which was the creed of the instructors. They were Locally Recruited Assistance, and he had no responsibility for them.
Chapter 17
The officer spun and Gaz had the pistol out from his belt. Cocked it.
The kids ran towards him. He waved them back, was ignored.
Had he been on his own he would have moved faster and with more attention to his security. But he escorted a prisoner who had his wrists pinioned at the back. The major could not walk easily and often stumbled, and there were times that he might have pitched forward and gone down if Gaz had not grabbed him and held him upright. He had twice found his own footprints, and knew that he took the best route as he headed for the dead tree. It surprised him that the prisoner did not complain about his treatment, did not try to flop down and refuse to go another step. It seemed to Gaz that the major had weighed up his situation, had decided that the fence was as good an option as any. Would Gaz have shot him? Possible he would have aimed and pulled the trigger if he had been kicked, a blow in the groin, or if the major had used his forehead on Gaz’s nose – and then had run. Might have fired then. If the prisoner had collapsed, could have claimed he’d turned his ankle, would he have put the barrel tip against the back of his skull, and squeezed? How he had won the prisoner’s cooperation was beyond fathoming. The man had his head down and concentrated on the ground ahead, on the next step and where he could keep his balance. They were less than an hour from the border fence and making good progress, and still there were no sirens, no tracker dogs, no helicopters. The kids were a diversion and an irritation, a further drain on Gaz’s focus. He was tired beyond exhaustion, hungry and thirsty.
He had not heard them, should have done.
“You stay back. Go back. Not your place and not your time.”
Nothing from Timofey, but the girl laughed in his face. He had spun, had the weapon raised and realised the lunacy of standing in the centre of a wilderness and aiming a loaded Makarov pistol.
“You have no business at the fence. I don’t take you with me. You did what was asked of you, and that finishes your involvement.”
Maybe Gaz should have threatened them with a show of ruthless and uncompromising temperament… Some of the Hereford people would have frightened the knickers off her and made him flinch, but they were the men who would not have questioned the Knacker instruction. Gaz, I trusted you, and a host of people have that faith in you. Find a way, always a resourceful soldier, weren’t you? Enough of them would have done. He had not, and had a prisoner and would receive little gratitude from the big cats when he handed him over.
“The last time I tell you – stay back. Get under cover. Don’t follow.”
Did not know what else to say. He could not shoot them, had used both of them and she still had the same damn grin playing at her mouth, taunting and teasing. The boy did not break stride.
“At the border, I don’t know what I’ll find. Patrols, maybe. Shoot to kill. Go back.”
Gaz almost believed what he said. Guns, danger, troops, directed at all of them. Would have bottled it before, now showed it.
She did not answer but Timofey did. “Be good to see, the border, see into Norway. Never been there, never done that.”
“It is not a theme park. Stay back and do not interfere.”
“Will be a show. Something to remember you.”
He did not know how he’d lose them. Madness, as if he led an asylum party, and…
“May I speak, Corporal?”
“To say what?”
He was Lavrenti Volkov, he held combat decorations awarded for service in Syria, he was a man identified for fast-track promotion, he had performed tasks inside the Federal’nya sluzhba bezopasnosti that had advanced his own career, and had delivered influential men to tongue-tied impotence. He was the son of a prestige-laden senior officer – and had been broken by the civility of a soldier, a mere corporal, who was a witness. Arrogance was stripped off him. Might as well have walked as naked as the girl had been but without fun on his face, only abject apology. He looked ahead, kept up a good stride, spoke firmly.
“I deny nothing. I was there. I killed – old people, women, children – killed them or helped to kill them, did not prevent the killing of them. There was a frenzy in the air. It consumed me, and when my face was scratched and blood drawn I lost control of my actions. That is not an excuse, but a fact. I veered to the edge of ‘evil’, became a creature beyond the norms of behaviour. Before that day I took delight in humiliating men through the uniform I wore and the power given me. Took pleasure from inflicting fear, and could grade it so that a man in front of my desk might be only discomfited, but might also piss his pants. That, Corporal, is power, and it is enjoyable. It is like a drug. At the village it was different to the Lubyanka… I called it ‘evil’. I have been punished, not as I ought to have been, but still punished. I have not had a girl since I came back from Syria, only a whore and rarely. I do not sleep at night whether it is the Arctic winter or the Arctic summer, and pills are useless. I am destroyed, Corporal. Because of what I did, I should face justice for what happened in the village, and face retribution. I understand the punishment that should be presented to me. I sincerely regret what I did… that is what I believed important to tell you.”
“I am not a priest. I cannot absolve you.”
“Am not asking.”
“Nor offer any level of mercy.”
“Not requested.”
“I do not debate what you did. They wanted you killed, my people. They wanted your murder, chopped down in a street in Murmansk, broadcast in those small enclaves of Syria where the government does not have support. Dead, you were a good image to demonstrate the limits of your country’s power. Your corpse would be a fine symbol, an encouragement to keep fighting. Because of what you have said, I do not think the better of you, or the worse of you. I was a witness and am scarred. We keep walking, and I will shoot if you try to break away, shoot to kill.”