The Englishman

by David Gilman

  He put fingers on JD’s pulse to make sure; then, satisfied that he had done what he had promised to do, he went into the bathroom and ran hot water into the sink. He peeled off his shirt and undershirt and washed the blood from his face. Then he bathed the wound, searching the medicine cabinet for any dressings. Finding none, he went back into the bedroom and tore the bed sheet into strips. He made a pressure pad and bound the wound. The pain was starting to bite, so he sat for a moment looking down at JD’s body as he rolled up the rest of the sheet. No sense leaving a torn sheet for the cops to scratch their head over. Besides, he would need fresh dressings once he was on the road. There was no time to rest.

  He rummaged in the wardrobe, spilling clothes from their hangers, found what he needed and dressed. The shirt, trousers and woollen jersey were a decent enough fit and the dry, clean clothes made him feel better. Small mercies. He dragged JD’s body to the top of the stairs and kicked it down, watching it sprawl and tumble and then lie crookedly on the floor below. Raglan went down and spilt vodka liberally on the body and furniture. It might be enough for a local police force to see it as a drunken accident. After all, there was no sign of a forced entry. A violent drinking session with a drunk smashing a place and himself up in the process wasn’t anything new. Raglan took a slug of vodka and felt it sting the cuts in his mouth. But it was warm, all the way down. He found a small rucksack on the floor below the coats in the entrance hall. He stuffed it with fresh food from the larder and tossed in a couple of tear-top cans. He didn’t know how long he was going to be on the road.

  He gathered his prison clothes and tied them in a bundle. He would toss them in the forest as he made his escape. He retrieved JD’s handgun and brushed the curtain aside to see the clearing sky. The dawn’s pre-light promised a clear day. It had stopped snowing and the night’s fall lay several inches deep, covering his tracks into the house. It was time to leave before neighbours woke. He checked the street. There were no house lights showing. He opened the door a crack. The air was cold and he knew he had to push back the fatigue that was starting to make itself felt. He had to make a run for it now.

  He stepped outside and turned to face the dead man lying at the foot of the stairs. JD’s one eye stared up at him.

  Raglan sighed, weary. That was one look of death which wouldn’t haunt his dreams.

  54

  Deputy Governor Anatoly Vasiliev followed his guard commander to the wood store where two of the wall’s slats had been removed. The nervous man blustered, promising punitive punishment for the dozy watchtower guards. Vasiliev listened patiently, scanning the distance. Yefimov had proved his intelligence and loyalty by not telling him that Regnev had escaped; instead, he reported the matter to the guard commander at roll call. By doing this he had not implicated the deputy governor. Vasiliev felt the comforting warmth of knowing he had played his hand well. Vasiliev could have given Regnev the exact location of where the other killer had been given sanctuary but by having the newcomer placed with the right men Regnev had discovered the information for himself. No one could ever point the finger at Vasiliev. He was safe.

  ‘You’re organizing patrols?’ asked Vasiliev of the wary guard commander.

  ‘Yes, sir. And I have been contacted by the local militia,’ his guard commander answered. The man was old enough to call the newly designated local police by their former name.

  Vasiliev raised an eyebrow. The flutter in his chest was one of anticipation. The police would only be in contact if they had caught Regnev, or he was dead. ‘Report,’ said Vasiliev.

  ‘One of the guards was going home after duty. He saw footprints in the snow going into the back of his neighbour’s house. He thought this to be unusual because the man who lived there never left the house. He went to the door and saw the man through the window. It looked as though there had been an accident so he forced the door. He called the militia because the man was dead. Militia say it looks as though the dead man had been drunk and fallen down the stairs. But they think there was someone else involved. There were too many injuries on the body. That, coupled with Prisoner Regnev having escaped, leads me to believe Regnev got that far and broke into the house looking for food or shelter.’

  Vasiliev turned away, afraid that his usual inscrutability might fail him. It was a fitting end and one that would go some way to soothing his family’s long-standing suffering at being posted to the White Eagle penal colony. Regnev was a professional killer hidden in plain sight among all the other murderers in Penal Colony #74 by powers in Moscow. An unseen authority had determined that Kuznetsov had to die. And Regnev had succeeded. Vasiliev had already thought through the scenario that would follow. His expectation of success had been met and now it was up to him to finish the assignment in a timely manner. The regional department would investigate the murder and question how a killer escaped from such a high-security prison and then there would be an inquiry conducted by the Federal Penal Service. The escape could not be as easily explained to the Feds as to the police, but no one on that investigative committee would wish to make public a weakness in the system. The matter would be drawn to an end; they would put new security measures in place. They would transfer Vasiliev as planned, seen by many as a demotion, yet hailed by him and his family as a reward. The snow would return and blanket the ground. And the truth would be buried with it.

  ‘Regnev will run for the nearest railway line. That means he has forty kilometres to go. Lock down the camp. The men stay inside.’ Vasiliev lit a cigarette and exhaled cold air and smoke towards the crystal-clear sky. It was cold. The temperature had dropped rapidly since the snowstorm had ended.

  ‘Grigory,’ he said to the guard commander. The man had shared the last twenty years at the camp with him; it was worth playing on that personal connection. ‘This will look bad for us. If Regnev is caught who knows what he will say about the security and conditions here. It would be better for us if his escape failed but… also that he did not return here.’

  The guard commander did not respond immediately to Vasiliev’s none-too-subtle order. He needed to be absolutely clear about what was being asked of him. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘are you ordering me to kill him?’

  ‘Daniil Regnev is a brutal murderer. He is dangerous. He might be armed. I will not risk any of our men trying to apprehend him. Shoot to kill at the first opportunity you have.’

  *

  After the killing Raglan had walked away from the houses and when he reached the road leading from the hamlet, he began running at a steady, sustainable pace. The cold air felt like cut glass in his lungs. Pain shot through his side and his muscles complained at his injuries, but he ran through the hurt, mind focused on the destination he had to reach before the road was crawling with militia and camp guards.

  The road was long and straight, wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and the dark forest pressed on to the verge on both sides. Heaped snow, ploughed from the previous winter, was still frozen and had become an even higher bank from the fresh snowfall. A set of tyre tracks had scored a channel in the middle of the road and Raglan had reasoned it might have been the weekly delivery truck to the camp that had passed before dawn. He was grateful that the tyre tracks gave him firm ground underfoot, a better alternative than trying to run in six-inch snow. If he could reach the lake, he had a chance.

  By dawn, he had made good progress and in the clear dry air the faint sound of the camp’s siren reached him. They had discovered his escape. How long did he have before a full-scale operation was mounted to hunt him down? He calculated the men being formed up, armed, briefed and sent on their way. Would they wait for the local militia? No, they would liaise by radio. That would allow the net to be thrown wide for him. He reckoned he had less than an hour to reach the lake. If he couldn’t, then he would push as deep as he could into the forest. His training had provided him with all the skills he needed to survive in a hostile environment. But not for long in these conditions. Wounded and with few supplies, what he needed w
as as much distance between him and the men who hunted him. Raglan considered his chances. The deputy governor had been in on the charade from the beginning but Raglan reasoned that just because he’d been bribed to facilitate Regnev’s safety in the camp didn’t mean he wouldn’t erase any link he might have to the killing. There was no way he was going to risk Raglan being captured. Blood oozed from his wound. Raglan lengthened his stride and ran faster towards the rising sun.

  *

  The sniper lay in his hide. The unbroken snow smothered the low roof of fallen branches and old foliage that he had burrowed beneath and which gave no hint of his presence. His white oversuit obliterated his darker thermal clothing. He did not know how long he would have to wait for Raglan to appear in the distance but he had chosen his position carefully. He had a clear view of the road with the sun behind him and the frozen, snow-covered lake to his left added to the glare. No one coming down the road towards him would be able to guess where he lay.

  His preference was to travel light. Deciding which weapon to use was determined by the mission. There was no sense in lugging a heavy-calibre rifle weighing ten kilos and a fixed barrel length nudging close to a metre when this job was a medium-range kill. For this enclosed environment where the killing range was six, maybe eight hundred metres, he had chosen a favoured weapon. The Dragunov was far from being the latest sniper rifle issued to Russian forces, but he had a soft spot for the weapon, which had proved itself reliable in theatres of war since the sixties. The hardened steel core 151-grain bullet would travel at 830 metres per second and its side-mounted optical sight gave him a rangefinder and compensation adjustment for the effect of gravity on his bullet over distance. The cold-weather battery case for the telescopic sight was clipped inside his clothing, its cord attached to the lug on the sight to stop it from freezing. Everything was ready. The waiting game would soon be over.

  *

  Raglan was slowing down as his body succumbed to the cold and his injuries. Tears from the effort of running in the icy air blurred his vision. He dared not stop. Keeping momentum was vital. To stop meant muscles seized and rising pain. But he was going to hit the wall soon and then all would be lost.

  The sun had reached the top of the trees either side of the chill, sunless gulley of a road. Part of his brain promised him warmth as soon as he reached the lake. It would bathe the open expanse in sunlight. His laboured breathing muted the sound of the first vehicle whose headlights beamed from the depression in the road a couple of kilometres behind him. Instinct made him turn. Another vehicle was travelling behind that, its headlights weaving, ducking in and out of sight, eager to overtake the lead vehicle. To be the first in on the kill. Their appearance confirmed what he suspected. The deputy governor was tying up loose ends.

  How many men? A dozen? Six armed men in each vehicle? Possibly more. What had he seen at the camp? Snow-tracked vehicles and small trucks were the norm but now he saw a blue light flashing somewhere behind the first two vehicles. There were probably twenty men in pursuit. Two Ks and closing. They would have studded tyres for the compacted snow. Perhaps he’d be lucky and the drivers’ enthusiasm to catch him would make them over-confident of their driving skills. Slow and steady was the answer in weather conditions like this. Studded tyres or not. There was ice beneath the snow and it took a skilful trained driver not to lose control. How fast were they travelling? Sixty? Yes, sixty max. Maybe less. He pumped his arms, his legs responding to the increased pace. He sucked in more of the cut-glass air, spat phlegm as he grunted with exertion. His pursuers were pushing hard. At sixty they’d be covering near enough thirty metres a second. He hoped they were going slower. There wasn’t much in it. They would be on him in less than two minutes. He could not wait until they were within the fifty-metre range of the handgun that he now tugged from his waistband. They might slow if he fired a few shots towards them.

  He turned, double-gripped the Grach, aimed at the lead vehicle and fired twice. The gunshots cracked the still air. The rounds had no effect but the lead vehicle must have seen him turn, aim and fire. Perhaps even heard the retort. The car swerved, the driver reacting to having a weapon pointed in his direction. Raglan had already turned his back to his pursuers and started running again. There was a brighter area three hundred metres ahead. Sunlight bathed a part of the road. Light no longer obscured by trees. It had to be the open area where the lake was. It fitted in with what he had learnt at the camp.

  Behind him, the lead car had slowed the others. Braking too quickly, it had skidded and he heard the crunch of metal as one of the following cars tail-ended the vehicle in front. The over-revved engines told him they were inexperienced fast-pursuit drivers but it would not slow them for long; they were good enough to drive in snow and ice, just not at speed. Raglan had bought himself a vital minute. He still needed three minutes longer. He needed to slow them again.

  He leapt over the snow ledge on the side of the road and ducked beneath the overhanging branches. A slender track channelled between the accumulated snow and ice on the side of the road and where the tree trunks barred his way into the forest. He heard the engines change pitch. They were slowing. He ran; branches caught his face; he raised an arm, brushing others aside. The men following would be more cautious. They wouldn’t be able to see him or to guess where he was and they would be unwilling to drive too close for fear of him ambushing them. The cars slowed again, voices called, and a rattle of gunfire cut the air above his head. He cursed his own stupidity. By brushing the branches away from his face he had disturbed the snow lying on them and the fine powder left low on the tree had been seen. He ducked below the snow ledge and saw that the men had kept back by a hundred metres. He fired twice more, saw them scatter, but knew he’d get no hit at that distance. He kept running, ducking lower, avoiding the branches. The thwack of bullets hit the trees where he had been moments before.

  And then he ran out of track with two hundred metres to go before reaching the lake.

  The guards and militia had better firepower than the Grach. The unmistakable sound of bullets tearing the air made him zigzag. A sharp bite stung the side of his leg. A bullet had scorched his thigh. Another tore into his side. He could run no more. He fell and slammed into a tree. He needed a moment to draw breath. A flash of memory of what had brought him here. And then sounds of pursuit drawing closer.

  He knelt, seeing that the men had dared to run closer as they had fired. He squeezed off four more times and watched the men scatter, but none took cover because they knew they were still out of effective range. Emboldened, they ran towards him. Raglan fired again. A double tap. Counting the rounds he had fired, knowing he had only eight bullets remaining. Two of the men dropped as blood exploded from their heads. Time faltered as the bullet strikes surprised him and his pursuers. And then the heavier report of a rifle echoed across the hardened landscape. Two whip cracks followed his own as two more men went down. Cries of alarm and panic set in. Four rapid shots shattered windscreens and engine blocks. A fifth man bellowed in pain as his leg was smashed. His comrades hesitated but then bravely ran forward and dragged him into cover behind one of the cars, leaving a trail of blood in the wake of the man’s screams.

  Raglan clambered to his feet and ran limping towards the lake. The air bristled from the whirring sound of three more bullets far too close for comfort. He broke cover into the open space between the lake and the road. The blinding glare from the expanse of sunlit snow dazzled him. On the bend of the road where the white lake nudged into the bank a mound of snow rose up. The sniper raised a hand, put the rifle into his shoulder and shot twice more. Raglan didn’t have to turn to hear the men’s screams.

  As Raglan reached his old fighting comrade and friend, the white-clad figure took a few strides to one side and hauled back a snow-encrusted tarpaulin exposing a two-man snowmobile.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to make it. You’re slowing up in your old age. Christ, you look like shit,’ Serge Sokol growled. ‘Damned near fr
oze my nuts off waiting for you to get your arse in gear.’ The tough Russian sniper grinned and looked past Raglan as they heard the one undamaged car reverse and then crash its gears as the survivors made their escape. ‘They won’t bother us any more,’ he said.

  Despite his exhaustion and pain, Raglan grinned and threw an arm around his old comrade. ‘Cheers, Bird. Militia will bring in a chopper to search for us now.’

  ‘Not with the weather that’s coming in. We’ll be long gone. I have a four-by-four hidden and a route out with a safe house near the border. There’s a doctor waiting. Knowing you, I figured you’d need help,’ he said with a grin. ‘Let’s be ready to move and then get some fluids in you.’

  Sokol secured the Dragunov in its weatherproof sleeve that ran along the snowmobile’s footrest. After throwing Raglan’s pack into the forest he tied down his own, which he had lived out of since getting Raglan’s phone call to his non-existent brother, Konstantin. Lifting the lid of the storage compartment he took out a slender metal rod and clamped it on to the back of the snowmobile’s frame. Then he expertly cut one of Raglan’s sleeves with a short-bladed combat knife, tore open an antiseptic wipe packet and swabbed his arm. He tapped his cold skin for a vein and inserted a cannula. The storage bin yielded an IV bag that Sokol hung and adjusted on the clamped frame.

  Raglan was shivering from shock, exertion and cold.

  ‘Almost there, mon ami,’ Sokol said tenderly to his wounded friend. Sokol pulled free a padded thermal sniper’s suit that had zips allowing the suit to be opened fully. He wrapped it around Raglan, zipped in his arms and legs, swaddling him in its warmth, leaving enough material free to accommodate the cannula. Warmth flooded into Raglan’s body.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Raglan.

  Sokol nodded. He knew damned well that it had only been Raglan’s strength and determination that had brought him this far. He turned the ignition key. The four-stroke engine purred into life. He turned the snowmobile’s nose across the frozen lake.