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FIFTEEN

The old farmhouse resounded with the sounds and echoes of hammering. Tarkovski ignored the noise. He had swept plates and cutlery and the dust of a long abandoned meal from the top of a plain pine kitchen table. Now it was spread with a huge map of the area. On top of that lay a clutch of aerial photographs.

Several of his officers watched as the colonel impatiently sifted through them. They neither moved or made any comment. Even a mighty crash from the room above, as a heavy beam of timber was dropped, elicited no response from them. They did not even make any effort to brush away the cloud of dust-laden cobwebs that settled on them.

The light in the room was gradually diminishing as a sandbag wall rose higher outside the window. Tarkovski ignored that also, continuing to shuffle through the large glossy prints. Finally he selected one for examination through a large magnifying glass.

“Whose responsibility was it to see the disposal of the bodies?”

“Ensign Fastenko, Comrade Colonel.”

Tarkovski didn’t look up. He knew who had spoken, recognized the distinctive lisp. He should know, it was he who had knocked out his second-in-command’s front teeth at their first meeting. The major had been under the impression he’d drawn an easy assignment. A pick-handle across his face had swiftly disabused him of that notion.

“You mean Private Fastenko I think.” Tarkovski let the words sink in. “Private Fastenko who is now on permanent latrine duty.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“You were going to add something?” Still Tarkovski didn’t look up. “What of Captain… what of Private Chulpenyev. That has been his post.”

“Give him something more interesting to do. Find him some mines to clear.” For the first time Tarkovski lifted his gaze from the photograph. “Unless any of you have an urge to join him, I suggest you turn your minds to this.” He held the photograph out toward them and slowly panned it before the faces of the group.

“Look carefully. It shows that a shitty little NATO battalion has been rooting around in what was until recently our property. We would not have known except that by luck I was passed these.” He smacked the pile of prints, sending several onto the floor.

The sandbag barricade had risen higher. Occasionally the grimy faces and arms of the civilians building it could be seen.

Tarkovski ignored them, as he continued to ignore the construction work overhead. “I take it very personally when damned Yanks or British shits start rummaging through my garbage pits. I would like them deterred from doing it any more.”

All of the officers knew that by this time of day the colonel would be well into his second bottle of vodka. On a sideboard stood not only that half empty bottle, but also an open Georgian brandy. It was when Tarkovski mixed his drinks that he was at his most dangerous. His rigid stance, slow and deliberate speech and unfocused stare confirmed how far gone he was. They waited for a definite cue, before daring to offer any suggestions.

“I want it done tonight. And I don’t want anything traceable back to us to be left behind.”

“The second platoon of the first company is at full strength, Colonel. They have done such raids before. Their commander would be perfect for such a task.”

With difficulty the major suppressed a smile of deep satisfaction. It would be an ideal opportunity for him to dispose of the senior lieutenant in question. The man was becoming greedy, insisting on an equal share of the huge profits to be made from their hoard of Afghan hashish.

Of course he could not be certain that the lieutenant would be killed in the night action. He had already noted in him a considerable talent for self-preservation. No, one could not leave such things to chance. As insurance, to make absolutely sure, he would brief Junior Sergeant Ivanov to take care of him in the inevitable confusion of withdrawal.

The sergeant was ambitious, and hoping for promotion. And he would enjoy such work. He was in the battalion in the first place for beating a Polish officer almost to death. Not that, for a Russian, that was much of a crime, but the man had been a general, and a political officer at that… that had just tipped the balance against him, where otherwise a KGB man could have felt himself safe from military justice. “They will require transport, Colonel.”

“The hell they will. Have they got no feet?”

“It was just that the Comrade Colonel said he wanted the action to pass without detection of its source. Surely if the men can be extricated quickly and cleanly afterward…?” The major left the sentence hanging.

“And where do you think the fuel is coming from? Three of the trucks are dry, and I’ve only half a tank in the field car.”

That was a lie, about the field car at least. The major knew the trucks were out of gas as they’d been siphoned to replenish the colonel’s personal transport. “I believe I can find sufficient fuel, Colonel.” Tarkovski knew his second-in-command meant he knew where he could steal some, from another unit. Or perhaps he’d trade some of his stockpile of hash if he had to, if there was no other way to obtain it.

“Very well, take the damned trucks. Just make sure you bring them all back. And one last thing.” Tarkovski leaned against the table to steady himself, his eyes constantly wandering to the brandy. “I want the maximum number of casualties inflicted on those shitty road diggers. I want the crap scared out of them, so they don’t go sticking their dirty NATO noses into what isn’t their business, anymore. Now beat it, the lot of you.”

As the last of his officers left, Tarkovski stumbled to the sideboard and sloshed a large measure of brandy into a plastic cup. Some of the spirit oozed through a fine split in its side as he grabbed it up and tossed it back.

“Where the hell is my orderly?” He bellowed at the wall. Into the gloom of the darkening room came a stoop-shouldered private, clutching a grease-stained message pad.

“Here, Comrade Colonel.”

Staring at the faded floral print of the wallpaper inches from his nose, Tarkovski belched. His mind was not so clouded by drink that he could not recall an important point from the recent exchange.

“Make out a charge against the major.”

The clerk waited for several minutes, then timidly prompted.

“What section shall I put it under, Comrade Colonel?”

Tarkovski considered the question. He thought of the major’s hoard of hashish. It was as well to be thorough. “Make it section forty two, subsection three. Failure to disclose holdings of vital war supplies. Namely fuel.”

“Does the Comrade Colonel wish to give the verdict now?” He knew he hardly need ask, but the clerk poised his pen, not writing the inevitable until the CO. spoke.

“Guilty of course, you shithead.”

“And the sentence, Comrade Colonel?”

For a moment Tarkovski considered. Not the sentence. That would be death as a matter of course. “By hanging I think. We might as well save the few rounds a firing squad would use, and besides,” he poured himself another glass, “I like to see them mess their pants as I kick the chair away.”

“Is there anything else, Comrade Colonel?” The orderly was backing away, as if in fear that on a sudden whim of the officer he might find himself keeping the major company, creating double the foul entertainment.

“No. Wait, yes there is, now I come to think of it.” Only a small gap was left for daylight to enter the room, between the damp smelling sandbags. It made a searchlight-like beam across the dusty interior.

“How many refugee camps are there in this area? What’s the intelligence estimate of the number of displaced persons?”

“Three settlements within six miles, Comrade Colonel. I think the figure is three hundred.”