Land of Ghosts

by E. V. Seymour

  ‘You calling me a liar?’ Tallis snarled.

  Darke shrugged. ‘I do not care whether you lie or not. I care only for our protection.’ Once more, his eyes grazed those who gathered around, including Sprite, who danced from one foot to the other as though he had a hornet in his pants. ‘How do we know you’re not a spy?’ Darke accused Tallis.

  ‘Had I been a spy, I would either have killed Bislan or left him in the minefield.’

  It went dead quiet, the silence broken by the noise of birds of prey wheeling above their heads. Darke stiffly asked for a private audience with Akhmet. Akhmet nodded. As both men walked away, one of Akhmet’s warriors, a short, swarthy-faced individual with pitted skin, looked at Tallis and, in a typical Chechen gesture, drew a finger underneath his throat and smiled. Tallis smiled back. Always good to be able to identify the enemy, he thought, only wishing he had a better handle on Darke.

  Five minutes of kicking the dirt gave Tallis time to think. Of one thing he was absolutely certain: Darke was highly regarded by Akhmet, his loyalty without doubt, his position almost that of second-in-command. He’d obviously done a first-rate job at infiltration, but at what price? He’d been under cover for so long, perhaps that was where his loyalty lay. Perhaps he had nothing to return to. Perhaps he no longer knew to whom he owed his allegiance.

  Ultimately, Tallis felt he had to consider the possibility that the intelligence was correct, that Darke had, indeed, gone native. Tallis wondered how long ago Darke had sustained the injury to his face. Had it been his only injury? Had his mind been affected as well as his body? Could that be the reason he’d gone off the radar? Maybe he’d spent months flitting in and out of consciousness left to the primitive ministrations of a less than basic field hospital. Maybe, during a period of convalescence, he’d had a chance to reconsider his situation, re-evaluate his priorities, and change loyalties even. Whatever he believed, one thing was now very clear to Tallis: Darke could not have personally orchestrated the hits in Moscow. Someone, somewhere would have remembered a face like that. His scarred appearance would definitely have given him away. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t choreographed the murders. Tallis knew it was critical to get Darke alone. He had to talk to him, find out what the hell was going on.

  Tallis looked up as Darke walked towards him, Akhmet watching from a distance with wary eyes. Jesus Christ, what had Darke told him? ‘I’m to show you the sights,’ Darke said, not exactly looking ecstatic about it. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

  Tallis inclined his head. ‘Tallis, Paul Tallis.’

  Not even a flicker. ‘Right, then, Tallis, step this way.’

  The camp was extraordinarily well organized, with separate tented shower blocks and dozens of mud huts within the fortress providing living accommodation for warriors and their families. Each had sleeping bags and beds and kerosene lamps, some powered by knackered-looking generators. Darke’s commentary was straight-forward and impersonal. It was delivered in the manner of an army sergeant showing a young recruit around. There were several opportunities when Darke could have whispered a word to him, but he said nothing, and Tallis, for the moment, held back, biding his time, trying to suss him out. When they entered what Darke called the hospital wing, a hut with makeshift beds and stretchers, Tallis asked Darke about his injury, the closest so far he’d got to a personal question.

  ‘Mortar fire,’ Darke said crisply. ‘Fortunately, I’ve got these people well trained. They’ve watched me set bones and pick out shrapnel. I’ve even performed the odd amputation without the patient bleeding out or dying. Not easy when your only painkiller is omnopon.’

  Shit, Tallis thought, the equivalent of strong aspirin. ‘So, basically, they knew what to do.’

  ‘They saved my life.’

  Next stop was the armoury. Tallis gaped at dozens of assault rifles, RPGs and Fly rocket launchers, a weapon, Darke pointed out, that if it didn’t kill on impact would cause death later.

  ‘It ruptures vital organs, lungs and liver mainly,’ he said, matter-of fact.

  There were also sniper and assault rifles, some wornlooking handguns and AK-47s with grenade attachments, several Soviet-made Dshke heavy machine guns, formidable against the enemy and designed to bring down helicopters. And, bloody hell, Tallis thought, one five-inch-calibre Barrett sniper rifle, a blow-your-bollocks-off weapon. He found himself drawn helplessly towards it. Not only could it disappear the enemy, it could be used to detonate explosive devices from a safe distance. It had an accurate range of 2,000 metres—and with the right ammo was capable of taking out armoured vehicles.

  In addition, there were dozens of boxes of cartridges and grenades, bullet belts and bayonets, mortar rounds and dynamite. Tallis’s eyes alighted on a quantity of C-4 military-grade plastic explosive. ‘Where the hell did you get this lot?’

  ‘Mostly off the Russians,’ Darke said, unblinking. ‘Every man has his addictions. With the Russians, it’s usually vodka, weed and cigarettes.

  ‘Before I arrived…’ Darke allowed himself a rare smile ‘…Akhmet’s men were an undisciplined rabble. And that’s what gets people killed. You won’t find any Rambos here,’ he said, the smile gone, looking pointedly at Tallis.

  Tallis nodded, met his eye, unsettled. Was this Darke warning him off? Did it amount to an admission that he knew who he was? Tallis wondered what was going on behind those pale, risky-looking eyes. He glanced around. Nobody was within earshot. Now could be the time to reveal his mission, ask Darke about the hits in Moscow, and whether he’d orchestrated them. Tallis hadn’t fought his way here to play games—the body count had been too high—yet with Darke proving so illusory, he was wrong-footed. The ugly truth was that Tallis posed a threat to Darke and that meant he was in great danger. ‘So what’s the immediate strategy?’

  ‘Akhmet will tell you,’ Darke said, dismissive.

  Tallis tried again. ‘I’m impressed by the scale of murders in Moscow. Quite something to hit the enemy in its own back yard.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Prominent Russians who took part in the last two conflicts. In other circumstances they’d probably be identified as war criminals.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re being bumped off, one by one.’

  ‘Serves them right.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you?’ Tallis studied Darke’s expression very, very hard. If not Darke, who the hell had compiled the hit list? And who had passed on the intelligence to Fazan?

  ‘Have you any idea how far it is from here to Moscow?’ Darke glowered.

  ‘Yes, I know th—’

  But Tallis was interrupted. Darke, or Musa, as the Chechens called him was wanted elsewhere. ‘You can sleep there.’ Darke pointed to an open yard with an awning jutting out from a lean-to affair, not unlike Tallis’s carport back home. This one consisted of three walls of stone, one side exposed to the mountain air. ‘Don’t forget to wash fully before prayers,’ Darke warned, stalking away.

  Tallis spent much of the afternoon waiting and watching and listening. Free to move where he wished, he saw many fighters busily cleaning their weapons. Tallis was familiar with the drill of stripping down, wiping every surface, cleaning out any dirt, oiling and wiping, reassembling and finally testing to see that the weapon worked. And these guys had clearly been properly trained. Others, with binoculars, patrolled the makeshift parapets while another section carried out running repairs on vehicles. Darke, he noticed, spent time coaching two female fighters, including Irina, in the art of firing a Dragunov. ‘Remember, when you’re working in pairs, number one checks out the position while number two is responsible for getting number one on target.’ Both girls hung on his every word, Lula, a dark-eyed Chechen, in particular. Every time Darke spoke to her she blushed.

  Everywhere Tallis went he was told what a great guy Akhmet was, devout and loyal to his men, a true warrior of Allah. Musa’s standing was almost as high. He was a great warrior in battle, they said. His
compatriots took it as a huge compliment that the man had returned to honour his bloodline. If only they knew, Tallis thought. Or was he the one who was fooled?

  He was astonished to find a number of Russians among the group. As one explained, ‘I served the motherland and what did I get? Cruelty and starvation, that’s what. Even if you survive the fighting, you get no allowances or compensation, not even if you’re injured.’ Tallis remembered Vladimir, the former soldier now begging in a Moscow subway.

  ‘I deserted and took my chances,’ a tall, well-built Russian called Alexander told him. ‘Akhmet is a better leader than anyone in the Kremlin.’

  Tallis was introduced to several of Akhmet’s family members, including his aged mother, a bent old lady with a weathered face as creviced and cracked as the mountainside. She told Tallis that her husband had fought alongside the Russians against the Germans in the Second World War and that, for his pains, they were banished wholesale to Siberia until their son decided it was time to return and reclaim their land.

  Tallis was struck by the degree of reverence paid to old and young alike, including a simple-minded lad called Salman whose family had been killed in the second conflict. Against this rather cosy Waltons-type view, he heard breathtaking tales of savagery that did not exclude their own people if they were caught drinking or stealing or engaging in premarital sex. The warrior who’d performed the finger under the throat gesture, a guy called Lecha, was particularly vocal in his disapproval concerning such sinful activities. ‘An insult to Allah,’ he maintained, ‘and worthy of great punishment.’ Tallis was also shown ‘the factory’. His Chechen escort, built like an all-in wrestler, was a man called Sultan.

  ‘This is where we keep our guests,’ he said with a big black-toothed smile, reminding Tallis of an eighteenth-century pirate. Sultan indicated a windowless dwelling at the rear of the compound, close to the latrines. Shooting the bolt, he opened a door, the sudden stench of excrement and fear strong in Tallis’s nostrils. Sultan nodded for Tallis to enter. Adjusting his vision to the dark, Tallis saw on either side of a main walkway what could only be described as holding pens. Inside were three occupants, chained by one ankle, all boys, teenagers probably, their wretched faces hollow with exhaustion, their bodies emaciated from malnutrition. He’d seen better accommodation for battery hens.

  ‘Who are these people?’ he managed to get out.

  ‘Hostages.’

  Tallis nodded blindly.

  ‘Go in, if you want. They won’t hurt you,’ Sultan said, as if he were talking about his pets.

  Tallis did, not out of curiosity, not even out of pity. He wanted to see how easy it would be to liberate these poor bloody unfortunates. Judging by the chains around their ankles, no simple task. Out of the three only one strained close. He had a long jaw, blue enquiring eyes, blond matted hair, which he scratched distractedly, most likely due to lice. The boy opened his bloodied mouth, muttered something and then grew confused. Jesus, Tallis cursed. Two of the fingers on his right hand were bloody stumps. It took all his self-restraint not to punch Sultan, grab his weapon and set the boys free. But he couldn’t. Not yet. And what the fuck did this sorry sight say about Darke?

  In addition to this blatant atrocity, he saw little kids encouraged to pose with weapons.

  ‘The children of Chechnya are growing up strong and ready to fight,’ Irina told him, introducing her sidekick, Lula, the young woman whom Tallis had already spotted, mainly because her gaze seemed to be constantly focused on Darke. While Lula was short and olive-skinned, Irina was tall and athletic looking. The girls worked together. They were snipers, they told him proudly.

  ‘And you are Russian?’ he said to Irina.

  ‘St Petersburg, yes.’

  ‘And you, Lula—Chechen?’

  Lula, doe-eyed, nodded.

  ‘My girls.’ Akhmet beamed, striding over. ‘Did they tell you they specialise in the rose shot?’

  A shot to the temple, Tallis thought. At the point where the bullet makes its entry, the wound blossoms like a flower. However much Akhmet glowed with pride, Tallis doubted Irina and Lula a match for a true professional.

  ‘You like my operation here?’ Akhmet said, slapping a paw of a hand onto Tallis’s shoulder and manoeuvring him away.

  ‘Very slick.’

  ‘We have Musa to thank for much of the way we do things. Before I came to rescue my people I was a humble market trader. I knew nothing of fighting.’

  Or strategy, Tallis thought. ‘Musa mentioned you have plans in place. Sounds mysterious.’

  Akhmet’s eyes shone. ‘Attack is the best form of defence, no? And surprise is the best form of attack.’

  Tallis blinked. Akhmet reminded him of his late dear old gran. She’d had a habit of speaking in platitudes. It was about the only thing about her that used to drive him crazy.

  ‘Were you responsible for the attack at Nalchik?’ Tallis asked.

  ‘We were,’ Akhmet grinned, proud. ‘And now we have another plan. We are about to take the war right into the enemy camp.’

  ‘How so?’

  Akhmet leant towards him, his massive frame towering over Tallis. ‘We are going to ambush a police station and take down a military convoy. And you,’ he added, a sinister light in his eyes, ‘will fight with us.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE police station was close to the village of Komsomolskoe, south of Grozny. The Russians maintained that it was all under the control of federal troops. According to intelligence received, the reality was different: the station was woefully undermanned. Tallis gleaned this during the feast the night before. Against a backdrop of magical music and epic song, illi, they ate and danced round a huge fire, faces a sparkle of light and laughter. The only beverage was black tea, sweet and strong. As a devout Muslim, alcohol in Akhmet’s camp was strictly prohibited, any infringement severely punished.

  During the festivities Tallis tried to corner Darke.

  ‘Akhmet told me of his plan.’

  ‘Really?’ Darke’s eyes flicked from side to side. Tallis picked up on it. Was he looking out for danger, or was it borne of years of guerrilla warfare?

  ‘I think it’s crazy.’

  ‘Why?’ Darke’s voice contained a surly note.

  ‘Armed police, for example? Soldiers?’

  ‘It’s not the police we’re after.’

  ‘That doesn’t really answer my question.’

  ‘Akhmet has a good working relationship with them.’

  ‘You mean they supplied the intelligence?’

  ‘They won’t present any problems to us,’ Darke said with a slow, cold expression. ‘As for the convoy, we’ll use overwhelming force to deal with them. Our priority targets are six FSB guys who are visiting the station. One is believed to be a Chechen who defected to the other side.’

  Tallis swallowed. He knew that they reserved the greatest punishment for such people. And what the hell was he thinking? The last thing he wanted or needed was to get involved. It would only massively complicate things, quite apart from the small fact that he didn’t have the stomach for it. He was supposed to be saving lives, not taking them. His only consolation was that with Darke virtually under his nose he stood more chance of uncovering any plan to assassinate Ivanov, the Russian Prime Minister. He glanced around. Lula was standing close by, her gaze, Labrador-like, fixed on Darke.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Darke said, turning his cool gaze on Tallis, ‘you’ll be with me.’

  Tallis stared at him. Ideas flickering through his mind, he suddenly and horribly got the picture. To eliminate the threat, Darke was going to dispatch him in the moment of battle.

  An uneasy silence descended. Fireflies danced through the night. Laughter gilded the air. The strains of a balalaika drifted through the woodsmoke, its melody haunting.

  ‘I have to check in with the sentries, ensure we’re protected,’ Darke said, tight-lipped, striding away.

  ‘About the plan,’ Tallis called after him.


  ‘Tomorrow,’ Darke said over his shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  The day began early. After an uncomfortable night with a bitter wind stinging his face, Tallis woke to the sound of the call for prayer. It was barely light as sixty barefooted silhouettes knelt down in neat rows and gave morning thanks to Allah. More ominously, they prayed for deliverance. Tallis, joining them, followed suit. Afterwards, he ate a simple meal of flat bread and mutton soup. They all did, eating slowly, as if it might be their last. That’s when Tallis understood. So today was the day, Tallis thought, hardly able to believe the bad round of cards he’d been handed. Never had he felt so unprepared for what was about to take place.

  After they’d eaten, and the women had cleared away, Darke spoke to the fighters. ‘Remember, we go in quiet, hit hard and fast, disengage and initiate a swift withdrawal. Our aim is to undermine and eliminate as many as we can in as short a time as we can. It will require daring and decisiveness. You all know which groups you’re in and it’s vital that you move as a group, spread out, like we practised, putting fast and accurate fire into the enemy position. If you get split up, remember the drill—dash, down, crawl, observe, fire.

  ‘Lula and Irina,’ he said, addressing the girls. ‘Don’t forget that as snipers you are the most feared of all. Whatever opposition we encounter, your job is to remove strategic targets. Got that?’

  Both girls nodded, Lula slavishly. Darke smiled. ‘As-salamu alaikum—peace be with you.’

  Then Akhmet came and stood among them to ready them for the fight, his presence compelling and magnetic.

  ‘My warriors, today we go into battle against a colonial power, a power that has repeatedly put our people to death, a power that states it wants constitutional reform. Let me tell you that what Russia really wants…’ Akhmet raised a finger, shaking his dark head ‘is the elimination of our way of life, our culture, our values and our religion. Be under no illusion, our fight today is not for independence and freedom. Our fight is for Allah.’