Land of Ghosts

by E. V. Seymour

  Bit by bit, the fog started to clear. Tallis could smell water again. The ground flattened out into a wooded valley, sunless, trees dripping with moisture, a river running through. Up ahead, round the next spur, barely visible, was a rough wooden bridge.

  ‘We go over,’ Sprite said.

  Below, deep and wide, the river boiled and hissed barbarously, like a wounded sea-snake from Greek mythology.

  The other side was a plain with a narrow road running through it, surrounded by more mountains, their tops mislaid in the mist.

  ‘This way,’ Sprite said, striding on. He was growing more animated, more talkative, his speech, half tour guide, half professor, a jabber. Tallis couldn’t reconcile the boy inside the man. Sometimes he seemed a kid, other times a guy in his twenties. Maybe his was a genuine case of arrested development. Or maybe he was simply a sad casualty of war.

  On they walked. ‘See,’ Sprite said with glee, taking off, Tallis bounding after him, watching in horror and amazement as Sprite leapt onto the burnt-out shell of a tank, a prominent white transverse cross marked on the remains of its turret.

  ‘Watch out!’ Tallis cried. ‘It might be booby-trapped.’ He could almost feel the boom, smell the terrible stench of burning flesh and entrails, but nothing happened. Nothing at all.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sprite said. ‘Look.’ He danced up and down then dropped into a squat, kicking his legs out like a mad Cossack.

  ‘How the hell did that get there?’

  But Sprite had taken off again, too busy running up and down the thing. Suddenly, he stopped dead.

  ‘What?’ Tallis said, clambering on top, his boots crunching on the blackened and twisted metal. He drew alongside Sprite and followed Sprite’s gaze. Ahead stood a lone figure, frozen, as still as statuary. Sprite took out Tallis’s binoculars and lifted them to his eyes. In that brief, unguarded moment Tallis knew he could take the boy. One swift, accurate blow to the back of the neck and it would all be over.

  ‘It’s Bislan,’ Sprite said, handing them to Tallis. ‘He has strayed into the minefield.’

  Tallis looked for himself. The boy, thirteen or so judging from his physique, was standing, his back towards them, roughly forty metres away in a grassy area off the road. God knew why. The tank, with its white cross, had served as a warning, Tallis realised. For some reason the kid had disregarded it. Tallis didn’t know the terrain but it looked from the rigid way the lad was standing that he’d either realised his mistake too late or had actually stepped on a mine that had failed to detonate. Tilt mines, the type that explode once the pressure was released, were rare in that area. Could be remote-controlled, Tallis thought, scanning the landscape.

  Then again, why hadn’t the operator simply got on with the job? The slimmest chance of all was that Bislan had, indeed, stepped on a mine that had failed to engage. Sometimes, in a PMN, a type of anti-personnel mine, if the fuse was too well protected by the soil, this was exactly what happened. But that didn’t mean to say that there weren’t others, undetected, waiting, and ready to strike. Whatever the real state of affairs, Bislan was doing what any sane individual should do: freeze and wait for back-up.

  Sprite jumped down from the tank, twisted his rifle round, and lifted it.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Tallis said.

  ‘It will be better this way,’ Sprite said, chambering a round and looking down the sight.

  Tallis leapt and landed square in front of Sprite.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean, no? You want to see him torn limb from limb?’

  ‘I can rescue him.’

  Sprite’s expression darkened. ‘You are no use to me dead. I need you alive.’ He sounded petulant.

  ‘I’m not going to die. Christ, I’ve got this far,’ Tallis argued. ‘Who is this Bislan anyway?’

  ‘He is Akhmet’s son.’

  ‘Akhmet?’ Elimkhanova? Tallis wondered, hoping against hope that it was the warlord whose gang Darke had been sent to infiltrate.

  ‘The man who will pay good money for you.’

  ‘Won’t he pay more money for the life of his child?’

  Sprite’s features sharpened. ‘Only if you succeed.’

  ‘And I will.’

  Sprite thought about it, ran a hand over his hairless chin. He’s weakening, Tallis thought. ‘Think how you will look in Akhmet’s eyes.’

  Sprite stood, stared, reflective. He looked like a gambler weighing up the odds. Tallis said nothing, fearing that one wrong word would force Sprite to abandon Bislan. Finally, Sprite nodded, giving in.

  ‘Good. Now, let me have my knife back.’

  Sprite grinned and shook his head. ‘You will try to kill me.’

  I could have tried to kill you on two separate occasions, Tallis thought, grim. ‘I won’t. You have my word.’

  ‘Your word?’ Sprite mocked.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, I can’t save him without it. You want your friend to die?’

  Sprite seemed to consider this. ‘Alright,’ he said, reluctantly swinging the rucksack off his back, taking out the knife and handing it to Tallis.

  ‘And tape,’ Tallis said. ‘There’s a roll of white tape in the bag,’ he added in answer to Sprite’s puzzled expression. Again, Sprite obliged.

  ‘I will hold onto this,’ Sprite said, catching the rifle round the stock and waving it in the air.

  ‘Do what you like,’ Tallis growled, the prospect of what he was about to do making him break out in a cold sweat.

  Together they moved forward across the road. ‘Talk to him,’ Tallis said. ‘Tell him I’m coming to help. Tell him to stay absolutely still.’

  Sprite did. The only visible sign of movement was a slight tension in Bislan’s jaw. That was good, Tallis thought. The last thing he needed was a reactor or panicker. That way they’d both get fragged. He dropped to his knees on the road, stuck the knife between his teeth, roll of tape in his pocket, and, leaning over onto the dirt, ran his fingers over the earth in front of him, centimetre by centimetre, inching forward. Look, feel, prod, he repeated, fingers feeling for fuse mechanisms and any buried mines. It took ten minutes to establish that the ground was safe enough to take the width and length of his body. As soon as he’d done that, he took out the tape and marked his passage.

  ‘You will be here all day,’ Sprite carped from the sideline.

  Tallis ignored him, repeating the process. Look, feel, prod. Look, feel, prod. He had moved a couple of metres, no problem, when, to the right, he noticed a tripwire. Didn’t say a word, just marked the spot and changed the angle of direction, clearing the ground anew. Slowly did it. Look, feel, prod. Look…

  ‘Shit,’ Tallis let out, his fingers hitting metal.

  ‘What?’ Sprite called.

  Tallis gently eased the soil away with the knife, revealing a disc shape in the ground. ‘Partially buried mine,’ Tallis called over his shoulder.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Sprite cursed.

  ‘Shut up,’ Tallis snarled, flaring with anger.

  The device was an anti-personnel blast mine. Although the size of the charge varied, it was most intended to maim rather than kill. A typical blast would destroy a foot or leg and cause multiple lacerations from casing fragments and surrounding debris. It was a weapon often used to slow down enemy troops. Not nice, Tallis thought, another wave of sweat breaking out across his brow, praying as he marked the spot so that he would avoid it on the journey back. If he made the journey back.

  ‘I’m looping round,’ he shouted, changing direction, fingers moving over the soil as if he were reading Braille. Ten minutes later the area to the left of the mine was cleared. Again, Tallis marked his trail with tape, feeling like a latter-day Hansel and Gretel. Off course a bit, he’d moved to within twenty metres of the lad. Doing fine, he told himself, calm down, keep focused, look, feel, prod.

  About to feel the way again, his temple pulsing in concentration, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and froze. Jesus, he thought, min
utely turning, seeing not one figure but several, all dressed in black fatigues, bandannas on their heads, AK47s slung over their shoulders, their grizzled features giving them the appearance of pirates. Were they responsible for the mines? Tallis thought feverishly. Were they about to set the bastards off?

  A volley of shouts broke out, anxious, fearful and angry. Sprite shouted back, told the men what was happening. Some called Bislan’s name. ‘Keep quiet,’ Tallis barked in Chechen. A chill silence settled on the land. Taking a deep breath, Tallis continued his lonely odyssey, inching forward again, nearer and nearer.

  Fuck, another tripwire right across his path. He looked up, caught the boy’s haunted gaze. He’d seen it too. In a strange way the tripwire had saved his life. Had he stumbled on, he’d have set it off and bled out by now. ‘It’s alright, Bislan,’ Tallis told the boy. ‘I’m going to mark it then I’ll double round behind you. You’re doing fine. Just keep still for me, there’s a good lad, and I’ll have you out of here in no time.’

  Slowly, slowly, mark, avoid, and move on, Tallis told himself, edging his way round. The pulse in his temple was hammering now, and sweat was pouring off him in spite of a chill wind. He was vaguely aware of a crowd gathering on the nearest hillside, but his focus was aimed on the ground, the dirt, the sick jokes it might reveal. Seconds and minutes thudded by. He was utterly in the zone. Every sinew in his body strained. Look, feel, prod…

  Eventually, and by a tortuous route, he reached the child, his eyes continuing to scan the ground. There were no obvious fuses, no metal plates. ‘Are you actually standing on anything?’

  The boy shook his head. Tallis stretched out a hand, touching the backs of the boy’s legs, felt the rigidity in the muscles in the calves. A great cheer went up from the hillside.

  ‘I’m going to make sure the ground around you is safe, Bislan,’ Tallis said. ‘Stay put for a little while.’

  ‘Okay.’ It was the first word he’d spoken.

  Fingers spreading over the earth, Tallis cleared an area measuring roughly half a metre around. ‘Now turn very slowly on the spot so you’re facing me.’

  The boy did as he was told. In spite of his dark colouring, he was ashen-faced. Even his jet-black hair looked grey in the half-light. ‘That’s good. Now, move onto your hands and knees.’

  Bislan did as he was told.

  ‘You alright?’ Tallis smiled, eyeball to eyeball. Critically, he needed to make eye contact, to make sure the boy fully understood what was being asked of him. It was imperative he gain the boy’s trust if they were to crawl out of there alive. Bislan nodded silently. ‘Good. I’m going to stand, turn around and get back down. As soon as I start crawling forward, you follow in my tracks exactly. You don’t stray or move outside the line, got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Here we go.’

  Tallis got to his feet slowly, muscles straining, each movement tiny. Back down on his knees and facing the right way round again, Tallis moved off, edging his way, inching along the marked-out trail. A crowd of fighters assembled close to Sprite, watching the final extraction, two women among them. One man, massively framed, head and shoulders above the rest, stood intent, his dark eyes ablaze.

  Tortoise-like, they moved in tandem, metre by painful metre, until, finally, Tallis emerged triumphant, crawling onto the hard surface, clearing it and collapsing onto the ground, Bislan safe behind him. Gunfire exploded into the air. An almighty cheer and cries of ‘Allah Akhbar’ ricocheted off the mountains. Tallis looked up, caught Sprite’s eye and grinned. Sprite grinned back until he realised the trick he’d been played. With the boy safe, there was no way Akhmet was going to buy Tallis, or make him a hostage to fortune. By his small act of courage, Tallis had made himself priceless.

  In seconds, Bislan, dazed and speechless, was held aloft like the prodigal son, several Chechens breaking into spontaneous dance around him. Tallis, meanwhile, was pulled to his feet by one of the female fighters. He noticed that she wore fingerless gloves, the type that snipers used. As his gaze travelled up, she smiled. Her hair was the colour of an old teddy bear. She had weathered skin and her blue eyes were framed in a heart-shaped face. ‘My name is Irina,’ she said, her Chechen accented. Russian, Tallis noticed, wondering if he’d ever get the hang of all these split loyalties.

  ‘And I am the amir,’ a resonant voice said.

  Tallis looked up into the face of the man who had been standing apart. He had a long beard, no moustache and the kind of mesmerising eyes that burned into you. He wore a military-style cap on his head. It took a while for Tallis to work out that the man was smiling. It looked as if he was baring his teeth.

  ‘The amir?’

  ‘The leader. My name is Akhmet Elimkhanova. These are my warriors. And Bislan is my only son,’ he said, taking a step forward and putting an arm around Tallis in a half-hug. ‘I am indebted. You have my greatest thanks. Come, we will eat and feast and you will tell me what you are doing here in the mountains.’ Out of the corner of his eye Tallis saw Sprite scowling. He registered that the boy, cheated of his prize, would remain a danger to him. Of Graham Darke, there was no sign.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THEY travelled along a steep, gravelled road, past mountain goats and sheep, in a fleet of old 4x4s. Nobody travelled more than fifteen miles an hour, the road so furrowed it sometimes seemed unpassable. The hero of the hour, Tallis rode with Akhmet and Bislan. As a mark of respect his weapons were returned to him. Tallis felt ambivalent. Against such a range of firepower, one man alone was hardly going to save himself should things cut up rough.

  Now that his son was safe, Akhmet’s relief turned to anger. In stern parental tones he gave Bislan the father of all talks about the stupidity of straying from home, the dangers lying in wait, from Russians as well as explosive devices.

  ‘I have already lost a daughter and a son to the infidel. I have no desire to lose another child. Think what it would do to your mother,’ Akhmet said, his tone deep and sonorous.

  ‘Yes, Father. I am sorry,’ Bislan said, contrite. Out of immediate danger, the colour was returning to the boy’s cheeks. He was a handsome child with strong features like his dad, Tallis thought. He had the same mesmerising expression in his dark eyes, too. Bislan couldn’t thank him enough for saving him.

  ‘We’ve received reports of soldiers being killed at a checkpoint outside Shatoi,’ Akhmet said to Tallis.

  ‘That was my work. Unfortunately, two escaped.’

  ‘You were lucky to meet Aslan, then.’

  So he did have a name, Tallis thought. Lucky wasn’t the description that easily sprang to mind.

  ‘Had it been another of my men,’ Akhmet continued, ‘they would have killed you without asking questions. So, Englishman, why are you here?’

  Tallis told Akhmet what he’d told Sprite. Aslan might be his real name, but it was a bit too C. S. Lewis to Tallis’s mind. Sprite suited him so much better. It suggested a degree of wilful malevolence. Tallis added that although he had not fought in any of the training camps, he had served as a firearms officer back in the UK so he could more than a handle a gun.

  The amir nodded silently. If Akhmet disbelieved him, he didn’t say so.

  The compound, which was high in the mountains, was a fortified mound of stone, planks of wood, corrugated iron, razor wire, netting and sandbags, the equivalent of a British army sangar.

  Inside were many dwellings, simple and basic. In common with many Chechen homes, the living area doubled for eating and cooking. Latrines were to the rear of the camp. Washing facilities were plentiful but basic.

  Tallis counted in excess of forty men left behind to man the hilltop fortress; the entire fighting force in the region of seventy. In addition, women, dressed in hijabs, all with rifles close to hand, went about their daily routine, some cooking shashlyk over campfires and baking flatbread, some washing, others looking after children, a mass of domestic activity. There was even the equivalent of a parking lot with each 4x4 as
signed a particular slot.

  Bislan was swiftly returned to the loving arms of his mother, a plump, dark-haired woman with eyes like a raptor. Word of his lucky escape from the jaws of death had torn through the camp with the rapidity of a forest fire. Everyone gathered around. Everyone had smiles for the tall dark-haired foreigner.

  Except one.

  Tallis hardly recognised him. His hair was short, unlike his beard. In common with many of the fighters who’d stayed behind, he wore a beany hat on his head, fatigues on a body that was as wiry as ever. But it was his face that transfixed Tallis. A deep scar ran from the corner of one eye in a diagonal motion, across the bridge of his nose, across his left cheek, tailing off in a ragged mess of scar tissue. There was nothing about Graham Darke’s stance or demeanour that suggested he recognised his old friend. Tallis hardly expected a warm welcome, but there was not even the faintest glimmer of recognition. Have I changed that much, Tallis wondered, or was Darke simply protecting his cover and, maybe, even Tallis’s? Tallis sincerely hoped so.

  ‘Who the hell is this guy?’ Darke said to Akhmet, black fury in his eyes.

  ‘This is the man who has saved the life of my only son,’ Akhmet said, glancing at Tallis, his bare-teethed smile full of gratitude.

  Darke’s suspicious expression didn’t alter. ‘He’s a Westerner. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He has come to join the fight, as you did all those years ago.’

  Darke spat on the ground. ‘But I am Chechen. What is this man?’ His narrowed eyes never left Tallis.

  ‘A man who hates Russians,’ Tallis said, staring hard back hard.

  ‘He has already killed three soldiers down near Shatoi,’ Akhmet threw in.

  ‘So he says. Did anyone see?’ Darke’s voice was granite. He looked around at the others. All slowly shook their heads. Some fingered their rifles. The air crackled.