A long Zil limousine, its black paint shining in the rays of the setting sun, had to take a detour through a rose border as the APC refused to give way, showering its gleaming paintwork with stones and dirt.
Taken totally by surprise the guards on the gate hesitated, uncertain whether to present arms or make a challenge, then decided something else had to come first as the eight-wheeler charged through, clipping one of the carved lion-topped pillars, and ripping away its ornamental wrought-iron gate.
‘First he drives us into the middle of a Russian camp, then he takes us for a tour of a Staff College or something. You got any other tricks saved up for us?’
Swerving the APC on to the main road, Burke half-turned and winked at Dooley.
‘That’d be telling.’
‘Just drive.’
‘Yes, Major, driving now, Major.’
‘We are leaving a trail of incidents behind us.’ Removing his boot, Boris wiped it with a piece of cloth that was instantly stained black.
‘That’s one way to put it.’ Hesitating before slipping a half-bar of chocolate back into his pocket, Clarence proffered it to the Russian, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.
‘If somewhere they are being plotted, if pins are being stuck in a map, then by now the Communists will know which way we are heading.’
‘More than likely I would say. I think we got off to a bad start by stealing a general’s personal battle-taxi, especially as it turned out he had his nest-egg hidden in it. Didn’t he, friend Dooley.’
‘How did you… I haven’t… what’re you on about?’
‘Thanks for the confirmation. I was wondering what was in that safe. It had to be code books or valuables.’
Scowling, Dooley dragged his pack closer with his feet, and scuffed it beneath his seat. ‘Bloody clever arse.’
‘When I first joined this group, you and the girl, you wanted to kill me…’
‘Andrea still does, I still would given a suspicion of cause.’
Boris hesitated before asking another question. ‘Does your hatred go so deep, will nothing ever sate it? When the war ends, or when every Communist, perhaps every Russian is dead, what then?’
‘The ending of the war would make no difference.’
Clarence knew the answer, it dominated his waking thoughts, filled his dreams. ‘If it happened tomorrow I would find a way to go on. But it will not, will it? And I don’t want the death of every Russian, I don’t care if they are all killed, but I do not especially want it. All I want is six hundred to fall to me, two hundred for each of my family. I am over a third of the way towards that target.’
It was the calm manner in which the words were spoken that struck Boris. ‘And when you reach that figure?’
‘Most of my hunting is done in the Zone. The average life expectancy for a sniper is three weeks. I’ve been around fifteen months. I do not think it very likely I will have to make that decision.’
‘I want them alive.’ General Pakovski picked up a chair and sent it crashing into a wall map. ‘Do you understand?’
The colonel had seen Pakovski in this mood before, and was frightened. ‘Of course, Comrade General. Everything will… is being done. We are getting reports…’
‘Reports?’ Pakovski’s voice rose to a howl and he swept the contents of a bookcase to the floor. ‘I don’t want reports, I want results. This tanker driver you mentioned, where is he?’
‘Dead, Comrade General. They killed him.’
‘A pity. I would have done it. What of the civilians who were found nearby?’
‘They have been questioned, but it is obvious they knew nothing.’
‘Shoot them; and the commander of the camp guard, and the guards at the bridge…’ He paused. ‘Have I missed anyone?’
‘No, Comrade General. There is this, Comrade General.’ The colonel offered a radio message pad.
‘Read it.’
‘Yes, Comrade General. We are getting reports, garbled as yet, from a Frontal Aviation Staff Training Centre, south of Schonebeck. It would seem to be a sighting, but it is unconfirmed as yet.’
‘Then have it confirmed, and return when you have. This matter is important to me.’ Pakovski closed a hairy-backed hand around a jar of pencils and crushed it flat, splintering every one. ‘Remember, I want them alive. I want to deal with them myself.’ He let the fragments fall to the floor, where he crushed them under his boot.
NINE
From the cover of the wall, Libby could see the never-ending series of dashes of yellow light from the masked headlamps of the Russian and East German supply convoys. They had been moving along the road all night without a break.
He felt ill, the sick-giddy feeling that came with being over-tired. The damp cold did not help. It should have been possible to see the first faint lightening of the eastern horizon by now, but after hours of darkness unrelieved by moonlight, the dawn was being denied him by the growing mist forming over every watercourse and field.
The chilling water-particle laden air struck at him through the old horse blanket he had wrapped about himself and numbed him to the bone. ‘Here, have this.’
Libby took the coffee Ripper offered and hunched about it to draw its last drop of warmth. At the first sip he felt better, and had to force himself not to gulp it down immediately. Taking his time, he savoured every last drop and felt its warming effect radiate through his cold body.
‘Traffic’s thinning. Major says we’ll be on our way again, soon as the flow is down to normal day time levels. You don’t see much civvy traffic anytime, do you?’
‘When the Warsaw Pact armies have finished pinching all the food, and every factory has been turned over to producing armaments, there’s not enough left for the civilian population to be worth shifting about the country.’
‘What do they live on then?’ Wisps of musty straw poked from beneath his jacket as Ripper beat his arms across his body.
‘A lot of them don’t, those that do, survive by growing their own food, or steal it, or play the black market’
‘Jesus, what a way to live.’
‘You call that living?’ Finishing the last dregs of the drink, Libby up-ended the cup to drain the semi-liquid residue of sugar.
The mist was growing thicker and the road was no longer visible. It was becoming lighter, but in a strangely luminous way, with no discernible source of illumination, as if the gods were making fractional adjustments on a giant dimmer switch.
‘Almost like home.’ Ripper took deep breaths, as though savouring the dew-laden air. ‘After a start like this, I always found a day was good for hunting.’
‘Let’s hope that doesn’t hold true for the Russians today.’ Libby saw that the American now stood surrounded by mould-speckled shreds of hay and straw. ‘Is there a good reason for you to turn yourself into an animated haystack?’
‘Sure is. While you all been trying to keep your teeth from chattering, I’ve been as snug as a bug in a dung heap…’
‘Smell like one as well.’
Ripper ignored the rude interruption,’… and you could, with some of this tucked all around you.’ He pulled out stalks from his sleeves and the top of his pants.
‘Kinda tickles down there, especially if you’re not too careful and put a field mouse in as well. There’s other problems too. I used to take my girl to her grandpa’s barn, but after things went wrong a couple of times she didn’t want to know. First time she got herself all smothered in corn husks: I goes in fast like I always does, and it were like screwing glass-paper. Still managed to finish but by then I was sore as hell, real raw.’