The pistol bulged in the major’s pocket.
He had a good stride and the kids made way for him but in Gaz’s opinion he barely saw them, as he took the same animal track that Gaz had used when getting from the tree to the lake. Had gone only half a dozen paces when Timofey raised a finger to the major’s back, and Natacha gurgled in her mouth, then spat noisily. The major gave no sign he heard.
Gaz asked the kids to lift him, to raise his head and shoulders, clear his face from the blood red of the little pool. He would ask them next to find some material that was clean – clothing, fresh on, if they had any – to make a casualty type dressing and use it as a plug for the outer wound. When he was upright they could identify if there was an exit wound, or the bullet was still inside… Then he would tell them the back-stop concept: perhaps they would help, perhaps they would not.
The officer moved as if he were a man determined on a mission and ready to organise and carry out the obvious when he reached communications. Gaz had many confusions and was tired to the point of deep sleep, but he knew that if he let his head loll and his eyes shut, then he would be gone, would not wake again. As confusing as all the rest was the question of a man firing on his attackers, frightening them off, but not showing himself. Too many confusions. The kids lifted him and their clothing was smeared with his blood. He could see up the hill, towards the spread-eagled branches of the dead tree, but no longer saw the man who had been his prisoner. Had lost everything except his life – had failed. Said so.
Natacha answered him, “You cannot have failed yourself as long as you live. To die is failure. What do we do with you?”
He had lost sight of Zhukov, had lost sight of the men he had fired towards, had lost sight of the man who had been a prisoner. He was on his own territory, and pondered.
Jasha did not enjoy surprises brought to the wilderness. Two shots fired from the Dragunov and his position still secure, Jasha could have backed away into thick undergrowth then moved off in a wide half-moon and left the scene behind him. Could have gone back to his cabin. There, might have heated a tinned meal for himself and given biscuits to his dog, and could have sat in his chair in front of his door and lit a pipe to keep away the mosquitoes. Could have wondered if Zhukov would return to him, or whether their relationship had run its course. Could have, except… the man had a bullet wound, and was being treated by two city kids who would have known nothing. The success of Jasha’s life since he had moved to this corner of the Kola peninsula was based on his caution and his shyness. He did not seek out strangers but hid from them. Did not involve himself in the affairs of others, was rigorous in the defence of his privacy. He went with a sniper’s skill, did a slow crawl and would eventually reach a rock that stood out as a marker. He came to the crushed foliage around it. He could see where his bullets had struck, where he had made grooves in the lichen, and he picked up the one spent cartridge case, then took the two abandoned rifles. He could not have explained why he had intervened, broken the core belief. They were crap weapons and carried the serial numbers given them by an armoury, and the metal insignia of FSB was hammered into the butt of each.
He thought the man was grievously hurt, and thought the kids out of their depth in matters of reaction to a gunshot wound… and he had heard the explosions past the landmark tree and knew that his confidant, Zhukov, had tracked them as they ran, and they’d have had good cause for fear. He sat back from the rock and had a clear view down, and his camouflage gear would blend well. He watched, waited, and his decision was not yet made.
“It’s like a movie.”
“No music and no fade out.”
“But real, and blood,” she said.
“I never seen a man who’s shot,” he said.
“There was a girl got stuck in the gaol, but nobody stayed around,” Natacha said.
“I seen a man knifed, down by the railway station, was mugged, wouldn’t give his phone, and nobody helped him,” Timofey said.
“Don’t get involved.”
“Get clear.”
“Anyway,” she said, “other people, the paramedics would have known what to do.”
“Except there’s only us,” he said.
“And we’re ignorant.”
She knew he listened to them. His eyes moved, lethargic but aware, and rolled, took in whichever of them spoke, and his breath came badly. Natacha knew nothing of medical care. Had never done a course in first aid or trauma response. Instinct demanded she back off, and Timofey would want to put ground between the Englishman and themselves. Would have been an old instinct, deep set. When she had been taken by the police, she would not have expected him to fight to free her, get clubbed with batons, and go to the cells with her. No one who sold on other pitches in the city, or the Chechens who came from St Petersburg with fresh supplies, would have stayed. There would be no help here and no chance of escape. If medical treatment arrived it would be because the bastards who had shot him had alerted a recovery team. They had been fired at and had run, and Timofey did not know what had happened, nor she. They put themselves at greater risk with each minute passing. His eyes watched them, waiting. He would have known what decision they had to take. She thought that he, Gaz, would not chew on blame and spit that in their faces if they left him. Whether it was a bad wound, or only looked bad, she could not have said. Each time she looked up at Timofey he seemed to step back from the business, like it would be her call, her shout. She tested Timofey.
“Do we start walking?”
“Start walking, and take him. Fuck knows how.”
“Not dump him?”
Done with a rueful grin, a trademark of her man, Timofey. “Can’t see you… Turn our backs, give him a goodbye kiss, start walking, then begin to run… Keep going, don’t slow. Leave him, ditch him. Up for it?”
And she tested some more. “What’s he done for us? All take, no give. We owe him nothing, owe his people nothing… We’d have to be lunatics to stay with him, help him.”
Timofey shrugged, a little gesture than seemed to say talk was cheap and wasted time. She reached across the head that she held and kissed her guy lightly on the forehead, like it was a sober moment – and a decision taken. Was for ‘better or worse’, seemed to her to be for ‘worse’, and defied common sense.
They lifted him. A big bird was circling, screaming at them. It was hard to hear his voice. Would have hurt him as they raised him up and she took part of his weight and Timofey had more. He spoke in Timofey’s ear, slow but coherent. One of his legs was lifted and one trailed.
Timofey said to her. “The guys who shot him went up the hill towards the border. No future there. Blocked off. Have to go down, where we started… he says there’s a back-stop. I think that means an alternative, an idea if all else is fucked.”
Natacha laughed. “Would you call that ‘well fucked, truly fucked’?”
Both guys smiled with her, but it hurt Gaz more. They went slowly and headed for the lake, and he was heavy.
Knacker stood back, waited to be told.
The Norwegian had his phone in front of him and text spewed on to it. Of course, Knacker knew bad times, as the wheat collector or the garrison commander would have, and the man with whom he identified more closely, blue woad plastered on him. Had done the vigils, had waited for his man to show. Could always justify the frustration at losing an agent: having to recruit again, change codes and procedures because, for certain, the asset would have a hard time in an interrogation cell. Would have to begin again – and he always cursed that his agent, his asset, had failed to survive that ‘last’ mission. Too careless and too desperate, and a net closing… Could have done with a cup of strong tea, and a biscuit to dunk in it. Instead let his hand fiddle in his pocket until he had identified the denarius coin: flicked it, turned it, scratched it to feel the markings, had started to regard it in the same way that some of the Mid-East veterans used the local worry beads. He thought it went badly, how badly he would soon be told. He did not interrupt but the sights in front of him – seen through layers of the branches of close-planted pine, and through the wire fence – offered little encouragement. The initial military force, described to him as border detachments of FSB, had been reinforced. More men, more trucks, more sense of impending drama: the job of preventing illegal crossings of their bloody fence would have been in the high areas of the boredom threshold and the guys in front of him looked to be motivated. Not quite baying for blood, the border boys, but close to it, and ammunition would have been issued and the chance of action was high, and… The Norwegian tugged at his sleeve, spoke softly.