by David Gilman
Raglan pulled on the extra shirt and socks that Yefimov had given him as another layer to combat the night’s chill. He buttoned the jacket and rolled his shoulders to make sure he had sufficient freedom. The boots were tight with the extra socks but they wouldn’t hamper him.
‘The wind has dropped but it’s still snowing,’ Yefimov whispered.
Raglan nodded. ‘Good. It will help dampen any noise.’
‘I don’t want to know why you are doing this, Regnev, but you cannot survive. If this is a gangland revenge killing, you should think again. Nothing is worth dying for.’
The darkness obscured the man’s features.
‘I’ll send you a new pair of slippers when I’m back home,’ said Raglan.
Yefimov grunted, ‘Sure. Size forty-six and a half.’
Wooden slatted beds creaked as men turned in their sleep, curled against the insufficient warmth of their blankets. Raglan tugged free his own blanket – for the barbed wire.
‘There’s a haunch of pig in a sack in the woodshed,’ said Yefimov.
Raglan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He peered out of the window. Cones of yellow light spotted the ground, the fences and gates obscured by the falling snow.
‘It will take me an hour or more to get to the houses. Time to go, Yefimov.’
The older man nodded. Udachi, tovarich.
*
Raglan squinted against the falling snow as he ran across the yard to the woodsheds. The breeze swirled snowflakes upwards as they fluttered moth-like towards the security lights. Raglan stumbled in the dark shed, his hands already seizing up from the cold and wet. Yefimov’s good luck wishes did not ease Raglan’s sudden uncertainty when he could not find the sack that held the dog bait.
He sank on to his knees and reached beneath the cut timber he had stacked the day before. After moments of scrabbling, his fingertips felt the rough hessian. Hauling it to him he felt the meat inside yield as he pressed. The loose wall planks came away effortlessly. He bent and squeezed through the gap, wiping his eyes against the flurrying snowflakes as he tugged at the wire mesh fence. The snow had already obscured the place where it was loose. He pushed and pulled the wire until he felt the slackness, then lay flat and pressed his shoulder and hip against the wire. He felt the tug of material as the bare ends of the mesh dug into his back but he squirmed through, dragging the sack and folded blanket behind him.
Scrambling to his feet, he peered into the night. The darkness and the falling snow obscured the workshop. He pictured where he had stood when he identified it in daylight and without further hesitation ran forward. The shadow loomed. He swept his arm across the top of one of the oil drums, clearing it of snow, and clambered up on to the roof. He looked towards the watchtower whose dim light flickered through the snowflakes. Unless the guard swung his searchlight along the dog run Raglan knew he would remain unseen.
He threw the blanket forward across the sagging old barbed wire that topped the mesh fence and then tossed the sack over. As he spread his weight on the blanket, rusted strands snapped beneath his weight, but the momentum of his rolling body carried him across without injury. He twisted free of the wire and like any paratrooper in the world instinctively brought his knees and ankles together, bending his legs for the impact of hitting the ground. The snow crunched and he rolled free, alert for the sound of the scuff of snow – warning that the attack dog was silently charging. Snow obscured everything except for a glimmer of light that gave shape to a shadow. Raglan yanked the haunch of pig free from the sack and threw it towards the unseen dog. He wrapped the sack around his left arm and hand, ready to offer it to the dog should it not take the raw meat.
He heard rather than saw the snuffling dog rip into the raw flesh. How long he had he didn’t know, but he turned and, pumping his arms, raced for the end of the wire corridor. There was a pedestrian gate at the end, padlocked and chained so that the dog handlers could come and go, but, because it was not part of the perimeter fence, there was no barbed wire above it. Raglan was sweating. He counted his strides. When he had first been brought into the camp he had estimated the gate was 150 metres or so from the building he now knew to be a workshop. He strained to hear any sound of pursuit behind him, but his laboured breathing drowned out any chance of knowing whether the dog was at his heels. Its crushing jaws biting into his leg would be the first moment when he knew his escape had failed.
He unwrapped the sack and dropped it in the hope his scent and that of the pig’s dried blood would buy him vital seconds. He almost ran into the mesh gate as it loomed from the darkness. He threw himself at it, reaching high for the top of the metal frame. In one swift motion, he hip-rolled over and lowered himself down on the other side. He crouched, fingers hooked into the mesh gate as he slowed his breathing and stared, searching for the dog. Nothing moved except the snow swirling in the breeze. Raglan sighed with relief. As he blinked away snowflakes caught on his eyelashes a massive impact smashed into the mesh gate. He fell back on his haunches as the attack dog lunged at the wire again in silent savagery, its paws pushing its weight against the gate, bits of meat still clinging to its bared fangs.
Raglan swore under his breath. Every soldier needed luck on his side in combat, but looking at that dog so close to his face Raglan reckoned there was a Russian angel hovering over Penal Colony #74. He had overcome two of the four fences that surrounded the prison colony. The first at the woodshed had proved easy; the second into the dog run had risked injury; the third alongside the narrow strip of dog run was impenetrable. The camp authorities had doubled the barbed wire on top and reinforced the mesh fence with dense razor wire. That would stop anyone if they survived the attack dog. The only way out was over the gate he had just climbed. Facing him now was the broad roadway sandwiched between fence three and the outer wooden palisade where the prison bus had brought him into the camp. There was no barbed wire on that wall, only the sagging overhead wires that fed the security lights swinging lazily across their poles. The open stretch was a fifty-metre dash in sight of the watchtowers whose searchlights swept across the exposed area. The falling snow obscured him but not enough – if one of the crisscrossing lights caught him the tower guards would open fire.
One more wall. He waited. As the first searchlight pierced the falling snow and moved away, the second swept across to take its place. Two beams of light courting each other. He realized it could not be done. Either searchlight would throw his shadow into sharp relief. Even the snow would not obscure him from their strong beams. Defeat stared at him across fifty metres. Turning back was not an option.
He thought rapidly, his mind piecing together the camp layout, desperately seeking another escape route. A gust of wind shifted the snow and the Russian angel took pity on the Englishman. The lights went out. He used the power cut to run across the darkened expanse of roadway and nearly collided with the palisade wall. It stood a little over two metres high. Raglan backtracked a half-dozen paces and ran at it, lunging for the top. Wood splinters pierced his hands. Ignoring the stinging slivers, he tipped himself over. He listened for alarms as he squatted, his back against the wall. A minute later the lights came back. Raglan was already running through the snow towards the man he intended to kill.
The silence was broken only by the crunch of his boots in the snow.
53
The little hamlet was picture-postcard pretty. Snow cushioned the roofs, softened sharp-edged fences and walls and disguised the house that Raglan sought. He stood uncertainly at the junction where the road curved away into the cluster of houses. The street lights glowed as dimly as those at the camp.
He turned back and saw that his footprints were already being covered. The hours before roll call were ticking away: then the camp guards would be mobilized and if he was to have any chance of escape, he needed to be away from here before then. He needed warmth. His clothes were wet from the constant snowfall and sweat – he had run hard to get here. The houses were in darkness and the dull light
denied him any clear idea of shape or form. He turned into the barely discernible curve of the road. He remembered everything Kirill had told him, willing his mind to bring up the image, as though he had seen it with his own eyes.
JD’s house had two storeys. It fronted the street but had a lane behind it. The neighbour had a dog run along one wall. Raglan stared into the night. Either side of the road showed only dark huddled shapes. As he stepped away from a street light, he saw a road going left from his direction of travel. The road separated the back of one house and the front of a double-storey house opposite. The double-storey was set back from the road. A length of garden ran from the street to the front door. Beyond the garden, he could just about make out a low wall separating the house from its neighbour. He peered through the falling snow. It looked as though this was the only double-storey house on the road.
He continued walking, keeping the house on his left until he saw a narrow passage running behind it. Was this the narrow lane Kirill had mentioned? Raglan crouched and made his way close to the house wall until he reached the back gate. It was no more than forty paces from the gate to the back of the house. There was a small extension to one side. Something glinted. A reflection of a street light on the road he had just turned from. Glass catching the uneven light. A window that was ajar. Raglan had reached his target.
Raglan squeezed himself through the window, cursing the pain it caused to his wounded side. It focused his mind. The handicap of the wound could make him careless. A flickering light filtered through the pantry’s mesh door, enough for him to see the storage jars sitting below him on the top of the cupboard. The pantry had shelving each side of the window and along each wall filled with cans of food, enough to keep a man in hiding for a month or more. The room had high ceilings with a cross-beam studded with hooks, no doubt used for hanging meat. The only thing that dangled into the room now was a string of garlic. Raglan gingerly stepped down on to the pantry floor, his eyes adjusting to the dull glow from somewhere inside the house.
The fly-screen door squeaked as he teased it open. He was careful that the spring-loaded frame did not bang behind him. Now that he was in the small inner hall he stood and listened for any sign that he had disturbed the man he sought. The dull sheen of the wooden floor that stretched before him into the main body of the house was, he could see, broken by rugs. He shivered despite the warmth coming from an unseen source of heating. His wet clothing hampered him and he stripped off his jacket and the extra shirt. He unlaced his boots and peeled off his socks. Going barefoot through the house would give him some advantage – the wooden floor was less likely to creak than beneath the weight of his boots. Stepping forward, he entered the main living room and saw that the flickering light came from a muted television screen. Two chairs and a sofa boxed the flat-screen television while a wood-burning ceramic stove gave out heat. The remains of a meal and a half-empty bottle of vodka cluttered the small coffee table in front of the sofa. Raglan moved cautiously towards the ceramic heater and rubbed the cold stiffness from his hands. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he imagined the killer feeling secure in his safe house. Curtains blocked any light from outside and Raglan was grateful for the glow from the television. A cartoon danced silently across the screen.
He moved stealthily, searching the room to see whether JD had left the pistol in plain sight. He had not expected the professional intelligence officer to be so careless and as far as he could determine the semi-automatic was not in the room. He edged around until he found the curtain which covered the entrance to the galley kitchen. It was too dark to see if any of the kitchen knives were nestled in a wooden block. A fingertip search gave him a cutlery drawer; he palmed a four-inch serrated steak knife from it. The open-tread stairs descended into the other side of the sitting room. Raglan edged around the room, staying as close as he could to the walls to diminish any chance of the floorboards creaking. So far he had detected no movement in the house. Crouching, he brought his eyeline level with the stairs, using the glow from the television to illuminate the risers. As far as he could see there were no trip wires laid to alert the man who slept upstairs.
Grasping the bannister he felt the first step give a little beneath his bare foot. There were twelve risers narrow enough for him to go up two at a time. As he stretched forward the stitches in his side tugged. He laid his palm on the shirt but felt no blood seeping. He reached the landing and its darkness swallowed him. He remembered the location of the bathroom and bedrooms from what Kirill had said and oriented himself to face the front of the house and the bedroom where his target slept.
The door was ajar. Raglan rolled his foot to lessen his full weight pressing down on the floorboards and then reached out with his free hand to push open the door. The deliberately slow movement had reached its halfway point when he felt the almost imperceptible pressure of a cotton thread tripwire snapping. It’s what he would have done. His heart pounded. He knew it was doubtful that JD ever slept in the same bed two nights running. By its next beat, he had gone down on his haunches, sensing movement behind him. The blow whispered above his head, his attacker’s breath exhaling with effort, and then grunting in pain as his fist connected with the door frame. Raglan heard the metallic clatter as JD lost the gun that was in his hand. The man’s weight fell against him, tumbling them into the bedroom. The killer rolled on to him, smothering his chest and scrabbling for his wrists, searching out any weapon that Raglan might have. An iron grip twisted Raglan’s knife hand and a lucky blow from JD’s knee slammed hard into his wounded side. The knife slid across the floor as Raglan tucked in his chin and headbutted the suffocating shadow on top of him. He hit JD twice, felt teeth break. JD spat and drew breath, but so far neither man had made a sound other than to gasp in pain. Attack dogs.
Raglan wrenched free one arm, tucked his forearm close to his chest and hit out with the heel of his hand. JD knew what was coming. He twisted his head, deflecting the killing blow aimed at the base of his nose. And then Raglan bucked and rolled, throwing the man clear. Raglan ignored the agony of the stitches tearing and the blood trickling down his side. He smelt the man’s sweat and his garlic breath and heard him scrabbling for the fallen weapon. Raglan threw himself towards the sound, heard a thump of an impact as JD collided with a bedside table. A lamp fell and lit the floor, throwing a crazily skewed shadow, exposing JD’s scarred and snarling face. He hesitated when he saw his attacker – seconds longer than he should have, his mind computing how it was possible that Raglan was in his safe house, deep in the Russian wasteland. Those vital seconds gave Raglan the advantage. Gripping the man’s throat, he squeezed with his thumb, crushing the windpipe. Most men would succumb quickly to pain and the rapid loss of oxygen, but JD’s fist swung hard, catching Raglan on the side of his head. An inch lower and his cheekbone would have shattered.
Stunned, Raglan lost his grip. He tried to get to his feet, but JD was quicker and delivered a kick to his ribs. Raglan fell back against the bedframe, doubled up in pain as the wound split. JD abandoned his search for the weapon and hauled Raglan up. Raglan used the pain to power strength into his muscles and as he was dragged halfway up, drove his fist hard between JD’s legs. The man sucked air, folded and tumbled on to the bed. Raglan hit him, splitting the skin on his remaining eye. JD tried to wipe away the blood that blinded him but he had lost the ability to defend himself. Raglan pressed his weight down on the man’s chest, gripped his windpipe again with one hand and shoved the pillow across his face with the other. He leant into the pillow. JD’s legs thrashed, but Raglan’s strength held him.
All Raglan needed was another minute to suffocate the life out of him but JD had seen Raglan’s blood-soaked shirt and knew it was the one place Raglan was vulnerable. He jabbed hard and fast into his bloodied side. Raglan recoiled, fell back and tumbled to the floor. JD let his weight fall on to him, his knees slamming into Raglan’s gut and chest. The stark shadow of JD’s snarling face sprayed bloodied spittle on to Raglan, who tried to rise,
but felt the cord from the fallen bedside lamp tighten around his neck. JD kept his knee forced into Raglan’s chest and pulled the length of cord tighter. Raglan choked, his lungs wheezing for breath, dizziness claiming him. He was losing consciousness. He hooked a finger into the double-stranded lamp cord, one part of it easing free from the other. It wasn’t enough. Raglan desperately threw his other arm wide, struck JD, but it had no effect. His fingers groped for anything he might use as a weapon.
‘Carter squealed for his wife and kids. Now you can join him. You stupid bastard,’ JD spat.
Raglan tugged the cord a fraction, reaching for the fallen lamp and thrusting it into JD’s face. The bulb shattered. JD fell back, hands reaching for his torn flesh. Raglan loosened the cord from his neck. The room was in darkness again. He fell on to the squirming man, grabbed him by his hair and drew back his right hand, driving its heel hard and straight beneath JD’s chin. Something cracked. The Russian’s jaw broke. JD let out a muffled scream, but found the strength to get to his knees and try to make for the door. Raglan grabbed him again, pressed his knee into his back, reached his forearm under the man’s throat and gripped his wrist with his free hand. JD bucked, but he was in a vice-like grip. His hands flailed but made no impression.
‘I told you I’d find you,’ Raglan hissed.
The deadlock forced his forearm against JD’s throat until there was a gentle sound, like breaking eggshells. Raglan heard the breath leave the killer’s body. A low whistling hiss signalled JD’s death.
Raglan rolled free of the dead man and dragged himself upright, his hand searching for a light switch. The ceiling shade was old-fashioned, faded roses that did not let much light through, but enough for Raglan to see his reflection in a mirror. The room was torn apart, as ripped and damaged as he was.