“So, I was there. But I was the liaison. I gave no orders and had no authority. They were savages, the Iranians. They obeyed none of the rules of warfare. None of it was my doing. I still have nightmares because of what I saw that day, I cannot escape them. What tortures me the most is that I was helpless and in no position to influence it. They were like mad dogs, the IRGC, but it was the attack in the night on their camp which provoked their anger. I did not plan the follow-up operation. I went along in the hope that some intelligence material could be accessed from the village. Several times I urged the commander to rein back his militia but always he refused. I am not a psychologist, but from what little I know of that discipline, it was clear that a frenzy of hate enveloped that unit of IRGC. They were beyond control. I had no part in the killings or the abuse, what was done to the women. I was a bystander. The weather added to the awfulness of the day, and into the night – rain, gales, thunder. I have no guilt. Do you not understand war? It is what happens in war. I have been honest with you, but I do not believe you were an eyewitness – perhaps you were there afterwards. Whoever you are, and from whatever agency, you should free me. I am an innocent man… there were no witnesses.”
“I was there. I saw everything you did.”
There was a tone of finality in Gaz’s voice, as though by trying to excuse himself of blame the major merely wasted breath. He looked again from the window and no longer saw the boat, only the ends of its bow wave and some gulls hovering over its wake. He had needed a plan and the quiet in the apartment had given him the scope to think of it. A workable plan? Not sure, would not be certain for twenty-four hours. It was the only plan he knew. He gestured to Timofey and the kid went forward and took the weight of the chair, and his father helped, and they straightened it. He said that he needed some food and a hot drink, and he peeled off notes from a wad in his pocket and gave them to the girl. He trusted her more than he trusted her lover, but had no right to burden either of them with his trust. She went out, and would have skipped away down the stairs. She could, of course, use her phone and call a police number, or could head off into the city centre and pitch up on the Prospekt and denounce him, and a storm squad would be kitted in bulletproof vests and wear balaclavas under their helmets and carry assault rifles and gas and flash grenades and would break through the flimsy door to the apartment, and she could then claim the rewards he imagined the major had offered… But it would not happen, that at least he was sure of.
It was a quality wake. Most of those that were organised in celebration of the life of a Round Table member were good occasions. They mixed anecdotes and what they saw as truisms, and laughter, and powerful doses of criticism were always directed at the new guard, the analysis geeks. Upwards of twenty were in the first-floor room of the Kennington Road pub and on the central table lay the theatrical sword. One founder member was a notable absentee – Knacker – and it was said that his rooms down the road were still locked up and showing no lights; so, not just him away but also his girls. Only a revered death could beat the excitement of the members when one of their own was running a show. Not that secrets were hawked round but small nuggets were talked of with evident joy. At the heart of the occasion was the true veteran, Arthur Jennings, always with a crush of colleagues round him and listening to the observations of the arch enemy of the geek gang.
“Miss him if he’s not with us, don’t we, old Knacker?”
“First-class man. No formal education but razor sharp. He’ll be up on some part of that bloody place’s endless border, and they’ll know about it, but not until he’s ready.”
“Serious, a meticulous operator, thorough, with an eye for advantage.”
“And a decent nose for ferreting out the sort of asset he can usefully employ.”
“I enjoy it when he saunters in here and gives us nothing, except that somehow it always leaks out, delicious canapés of detail.”
And the drink flowed and a good friend was remembered, gone on the long journey to the safe house in the skies, and the entry of the Coldstreamer was barely noticed. They believed themselves to be an old élite, whose life span was essential to the safety of the realm. They were confident and cheerful.
The Coldstreamer crouched beside Arthur Jennings’ chair. “So sorry, sir, for the disturbance. A summons from the DD-G, sir. You are required to attend, immediate. A car waiting outside.”
The officer’s rucksack was retrieved. His personal weapon found at the bottom.
Up the stairs, two at a time, Mikki leading. He could have said, or Boris, that the world had no worse outcome up its sleeve than when personal protection lost its ‘principal’. Irrelevant whether they despised him. Unimportant if they detested him. On their watch, they had lost the major.
The old cow had locked herself inside her apartment, had barred or bolted the door. They kicked the door and shouted. No response. Then they put their shoulders to it.
Mikki, from Kamchatka in the far east of the Federation was the tougher, stronger, and Boris from Irkutsk in Siberia was the brighter. It was Mikki’s efforts that collapsed the door, then Boris had hold of the old woman. Her shopping bags were not yet unpacked. She was on her knees. Nothing subtle in the efforts of Boris. She was a fellow citizen of the Federation. Her late husband had worked loyally for the state. He twisted the lobe of an ear. In between her bleating cries, like a ewe’s, he whispered his questions. Each time she did not answer it was Mikki’s turn to sweep china from a cupboard and pictures from the walls, and soon the room was trashed.
Done steadily, without impatience, and she was given the impression that the two of them had time to spill, could keep the pain coming without needing to hurry. Could hurt her more than she had ever been hurt, could break pretty much everything she possessed. Weeping and holding her ear, she spat out what she knew. The girl who had carried her bag was the girl who had kissed the man on the step by the front door. The boy who had sat in the car. The car that had taken the officer away. The man who kissed was not of that city, and not Russian. They left her.
Outside, pieces of the puzzle started to interlock, and connections were made.
A car might have followed them the previous evening when they had brought the major back from the Prospekt. The boy who had gone into the bar and had emerged with two vodka bottles had had a foreigner with him. Through the window of the bar they had seen the ‘foreigner’ go close to the major, then abruptly turn away. The boy who had come to the gate of the headquarters building on Prospekt and had carted away a drunk and been ingratiating and polite. The drunk had been demanding access to an officer to make an accusation of treachery. Work to be done, and fast, at that building.
First, unwelcome business. A telephone call to be made. Mikki behind the wheel and starting the engine and needing to burn rubber, and Boris scrolling through his phone for a stored number. Keys pressed. Face creased in anxiety, dialling tone and ringing out. A clipped military tone answered. Boris gave his name. What did he want? The brigadier and his wife were soon to leave for the airport to celebrate the return of their son from duty in the far north. Why did he call?