Why? Difficult to answer. Knacker had never been across the borders, by land, by sea, by air, of the old Soviet Union and of the newer Russian Federation. The only citizens that he knew from behind the former or present versions of an Iron Curtain were fugitive dissidents and recruited defectors. The matter of searching for an opposition target was based on the value it carried. Russians were high end. Men talked long into the night of when they had bested that opponent. Legendary tales were embedded into the Service folklore, epic triumphs – and monumental failures. They were the only ‘enemy’ on the playing field for whom the game’s end result mattered… with, Knacker’s opinion, motivation and going the extra yard. A game with high stakes. They played big, and Knacker had lost men and they had too. He would continue to face collateral as would they… but always the notion of victory softened any conscience pang… He thought himself a man of decency, would gladly write the chit for a one-off payment for a widow, a grieving mother, a daughter, even a mistress. He thought his opponents arrogant, contemptuous of his efforts and so it was worth administering a sharp kick to these shins. As he walked the wide streets of this frontier community, he could consider that the establishment of a small oasis of loyalty where once had been the village of Deir al-Siyarqi was reward enough for casualties taken.
He was in a fine mood. He kept away from the hotel where the Facilitator and his hoods waited to be called forward. He assumed that Gaz, the reluctant volunteer, was by now on the trail, lead dog in a pack and going hard after a bushy tail, and on board the fishing boat within hours… going well.
Not complacent and not chicken counting, but likely soon to be murmured about at a Round Table lunch… Going well enough to be shared amongst that élite where the impossible was boasted as normal, why it existed and why Knacker’s reputation was rarely bested. Going well and the phone in his pocket would only ring if the business headed for the pan. He was pleased that the Round Table’s traditions remained in good hands, was vindicated.
Fingers probed, prodded, used a meld of firmness and gentleness, but went where they were guided and with the required force.
Eyes glanced away from the patient’s chest and upper stomach and scanned the X-rayed image that had been taped to the side of a bookcase above a drinks cabinet. Lips pursed and a frown furrowed a forehead. The doctor was astride a stool and his patient – Dickie, Director-General, God Almighty – was propped up by cushions on the chaise longue that had long been a fixture in that office high above the river, looking out on the seat of government on the other side of the Thames. The patient would have assumed himself indestructible but the doctor would have known better.
“All right, give it me.”
The doctor did.
“Heavy schedule at the moment. I’ll try and fit in the necessary when it’s calmer.”
The doctor’s head shook sharply. ‘Immediately’ was the response, or ‘sooner’.
“Bugger… you don’t look open to negotiation, Freddie. Can’t go this moment, need to put the DD-G in the frame. Allowed that, am I?”
No barter permitted. A few hours, not a full day. If the schedule were abused the chances were high that the destination would be the mortuary, not the clinic. The doctor thought a soothing word might help, ‘nothing’s for ever, and the DD-G’s likely to make a fair fist of things’, and the tidbit of the joys of lasting longer, seeing more of the grandchildren.
“Smooth talk… Problem is I’ve put things in place, but they’re on a fragile base – one running at the moment. Beyond recall… Be here tomorrow, please, and take me in.”
The doctor left. The Director-General, an admirer of Knacker, a supporter of all of that ilk, pushed himself uncomfortably off the chaise longue and felt that irritating stab of pain, and rang his PA in the outer office and asked for a meeting with his deputy, early in the morning. Felt angry, then reflected that it was probably never easily accepted that a potentially terminal condition existed deep in the chest.
“Shit, bloody inconvenient. A show running and all out of reach.”
He parked the pick-up. It might have been in a restricted area, but the hunter, the recluse from the forest, had no address that would register on a traffic office computer. He went to the hotel and carried a heavy bag. Horns jutted from it, and the hooves of two deer, and the tip of the dark tail of an Arctic fox. Jasha had come to town to do business. There was one hotel in the town that his contact cared to use.
The Azimut had a minimalist coffee lounge and lobby. Jasha came here because it was a hotel that permitted him to bring his old dog. Normally he would have sat with the agent who bought the pelts and trophies, and the dog would have been curled by his feet. He accepted the cash offered… not that he needed money. Under his bed in the cabin and screwed down on to the floor’s planking was a combination-locked safety deposit box. Each time that he returned from Murmansk it was harder for Jasha to insert the bank notes, denominations of 100 American dollars and 500 Russian rubles with the image of Peter the Great upon them. Jasha could not have said how much he was worth and had never tipped the notes out of their secure box and counted them. His distraction was obvious, and the agent quizzed him.
“Are you unwell, Jasha?”
A shake of the head and an attempt to dismiss such trivia. “No, I am well.”
“And soon another winter, and you are not younger, and you live without comfort.”
“I am good, and I have pleasant company.”
“You have not lured a woman up there, surely not?”
“I have my own company, have my dog, and outside is nature. It is enough.”
He assumed the agent thought he lived in circumstances similar to a serf in the times of Catherine. He was challenged twice more with efforts at conversation, and was vague. They made their farewells. He had the idea that the agent watched him leave and wore that look an old friend reserves for someone not expected to live long. The money was in his hip pocket and he had shouldered the big bag, now empty. He would visit a supermarket for essentials, then head back up the road, into the wilderness, to rejoin his own world of the dog, the bear and the creatures he stalked… except, the source of his distraction: he had seen the intruders he had noticed earlier on his way to the Azimut hotel.
The old sniper had needed to be certain in his judgements: distance, wind speed, identity of targets – and then act on the evidence displayed. He was not a man of self-doubt. Jasha always used the same route into Murmansk. Climbing the hill before the last drop down to the hotel, he had seen them. A young man with the pallor of a city kid from a tower block, a girl with a stream of blonde hair flying as she skipped over rocks, and a man who Jasha would have said was a soldier. Had seen them among the trees and rocks and heading towards the road below the Titovka roadblock. Had seen them in a small car, a moving wreck, that had struggled up a hill. Had seen the driver clearly, and the ‘soldier’ had been beside him and the girl had been sprawled in the back. Had recognised them… They followed, up to the lights where he was held, a black saloon BMW 5 series, two men in the front in civilian clothes and he thought a uniformed officer in the back, but it had tinted windows. He added together all he’d seen: sufficient to distract him from selling pelts and trophies. He hurried to the supermarket wanted to be home where he had no involvement, was no part of a mystery.