“I won’t see you again, friend, but I wish you well. It is right that you come out another way because this is a valuable place and should not be abused. You are like a bear. A bear does not recognise a political barrier. Goes to it, assesses, crosses it and has a coat that is strong, and protects it. We believe we know the patrol pattern and that this is a good time. You cross. You run after returning to me what is mine, and you do not stop. You go across the patrol track, then right and you will see a tree, quite tall, killed by a lightning strike. Beyond it, on lower ground, is a small lake. You take the left side of it and will see an animal track that veers to the right and you follow it, and you come to the road. That is the main highway from Kirkenes to Murmansk. On the far side, going down a little hill, is a picnic site, a pull-in behind the trees. There used to be benches there when the idea was to develop cross-border relations and have a friendly place for Russians and Norwegians to stop, take a pee, eat, then drive on. It is not used now because relationships have changed, changed considerably. You do not expect charity there, friend, but it is where you will meet your people. I wish you well. You are ready?”
“Ready.”
The Norwegian glanced at his watch, stood erect, listened. Gaz heard only the light patter of rain and the wind blowing in treetops, was passed the sheet of hard leather, and breathed hard, and considered. Then, with no ceremony, he was pushed in the shoulder and went forward, stumbled, regained his balance… and realised he was at war, a lowly and deniable trooper, lurching towards a frontier barrier. A few strides and the fence was in front of him. The ethos of his former unit was to merge and blend, to observe and note, to slip away and report. What action was taken was not his responsibility. Did as he was told, obeyed orders and it was for others to decide what use was made of the information he provided. He did not pilot a drone strike and did not nestle a sniper’s rifle against his shoulder. He did not have to look into the faces of the relatives or the comrades-in-arms of those whose lives were snatched because of the reconnaissance he was expert at. Comforting? Sometimes… What he had often hidden behind was the screen of professionalism. Like now. Like getting across open grass, thick and tufted, and seeing the fence looming high over him and razor wire strands up to his waist, and among them tumbler alarm wires, then four more stands, then short crossbars on each post and attached to them was more wire that projected a foot on each side. The concrete posts holding the barrier were solid and newly made. Saw that, and saw the ploughed strip beyond the fence where footprints would show, and he’d not have the time to smooth the dirt and lose the shape of his boots in the ground. Then a vehicle track, and patrols would be alerted by the tumbler wires, then the sanctuary of the tree line… No time to consider the finer points of ethics… A last thought and not of Aggie, not of Aggie taking a picnic with him on the cliff edge, but of the girl, and her scarred face, who had come to encourage him and the contempt in her voice when he’d explained his role, what he did and what he did not do. He heaved the sheet of hard leather over the wires’ cutting edges at the top of the fence, and jumped. The fence rocked, and he swung his legs.
A hissing voice, urgent, behind him. “Go. Keep going.”
They were thrown from behind him. Done expertly, landing not by chance but from a practised drill. Two metal pieces, the size of dinner plates, lay on the undisturbed ploughed strip.
He landed. The fence was violated, the wire loosened and sagged. Professionalism kicked in, like he had not been away two years, sitting in the shadows, agonising over his past. By now the alarms would be chorusing and lights flashing. He stretched forward with his right leg and put his boot on to the nearer metal plate and felt it sink, and stepped on to the second, and balanced and rocked and crouched and reached to pick up the first and threw it, and saw it fly well above the drooping fence. The Norwegian was on the far side of the wire, freeing the leather, and starting to scatter the hairs from his plastic bag, long and coarse. Gaz did the last stride and was beyond the ploughed strip and turned and groped for the second plate, and could see that the imprint it left was that of a huge beast with claw indents that went down a quarter of an inch. Clever and simple, and good enough for a cursory check. He threw the second plate over the fence and the Norwegian scurried to pick it up, and was gone. Left behind was the buckled fence, the traces of brown bear hairs impaled on the barbs and also the creature’s prints.
Gaz ran. Went fast for the tree line. Head down, searching for stones on which to land, and rock where he would not leave a trail. Kept running, and veered to the right as he had been told. Saw the tree. Dark, bare, dead, it seemed scorched as if the lightning had burned all sap and life from it. He headed for it… tried to gain strength to fight the fear that welled. Had dismissed the girl with her goats, and Aggie who was bent on rescuing him, and even Debbie who was a good kid and sorely tried and whom he had hit. He thought of the target, the officer who had come to the village.
Delta Alpha Sierra, the sixth hour
The body on the crossbar no longer kicked, or twitched, just spiralled.
Gaz was trained to observe, accepted that life was gone. He watched the troops who were not part of the cordon, those who had fanned out and were starting to search the buildings. It might have been that either the commander or his Russian captain were behind schedule, that time had slipped, and the example to be made was not yet nailed down. Troops approached the group of kids, who sat, hunched, round shoulders, blindfolded heads, hands tied at their backs. Until the Iranians reached for them they would not have known if they were to be taken. The one with a football shirt was lifted up and held. Gaz had the glasses on him and recognised the badge on his shirt was that of Bayern Munich; the shirt would have been a top possession, and would have come into Syria with aid parcels from Germany: not sending their own sons to fight in a messy mid-east war, but happy to send a football shirt over. The kids did not know, but Gaz did, where they were going to be taken. He knew… and the girl probably knew, and Gaz reached forward and stretched his arm far enough to hold her wrist, and held it tight.
He said nothing, nor did she.
What they had seen was that there were now four ropes looped over the crossbar of the goalpost. A man from the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps carried a sledgehammer and tent pegs. The ropes had a noose at the short end; after being slung over the crossbar, the other end was fastened to a peg which was then hammered into the soil. More chairs had been brought out into the rain and the wind. The corralled women, with the small children, were not blindfolded and they might have been intimidated by the aimed rifles during the first killing, but no longer. They had begun to whistle and shriek and the sounds of their voices filled the valley.
The one who wore the Bayern Munich shirt kicked out as he was carried. Gaz assumed that his blindfold had slipped. The kid would have seen the goal where he’d believed himself the Lewandowski of the village. Seen the ropes and the chairs, seen the body suspended, feet making slow circles and reversing, and would have seen the hooded man who stood near to the commander. Gaz could not have said what was best. Best to get it over with, take the inevitable, hope it would be quick. Or best to fight, howl and lash out, try to break free only to be clubbed and taken to the football goal and heaved up on to a chair? Gaz had no opinion, hated what he saw but could not look away, and held the girl’s wrist. Had he been able to, Gaz would have smothered her, lain on top of her and twisted her head so that she saw nothing, and covered her ears so that she heard nothing. The cordon of militia guys was perhaps a 100 metres from him and seemed uninterested in a group of goats, would not have seen her, nor her dogs. If she yelled at them or stood and screamed curses then they would come, fanned out and scrambling at speed, and he would have no possibility of breaking out, and she would be shot down. For him it would be worse; to be captured was the foulest nightmare of Special Forces troops. If she did sacrifice her cover and scream abuse she would achieve nothing. He held her.