by James Rouch
‘You’ve had enough to drink.’
‘I have never had enough.’ Brushing aside Webb’s attempt to wrest his-bottle from him, Gross took a long series of gulps before paused for breath and then belching. ‘That’s why I started taking Ivan’s money. Easy it was, just start a strike here, rig a ballot there, nothing to it. I was doing it anyway, and the good old USSR paid up like I was doing it to order.’
‘Help me to carry Edwards to the car.’ Not really expecting any assistance, Webb was surprised when Gross, pants still gaping, took the professor’s blanket-swaddled feet.
‘Should have chucked him overboard like that ancient fool with the dog collar and worry beads.’ Having difficulty focusing as well as keeping his footing, Gross lurched in a zig-zag course with his share of their unconscious burden.
‘Any further diminution of our numbers would, I feel, devalue our mission. In fact his condition might even enhance the propaganda value of our journey.’ Webb had to stop while the drunk disentangled his feet from the tangle of bandage that had unwound and was trailing from Edwards’ right hand.
‘How about if I slit his throat, then we’d have a heroic martyr, wouldn’t we. That’s got to be worth more points, hasn’t it?’ Giving up his attempts to divest himself of the bandage, Gross resigned himself to its hobbling restraint and signalled Webb to lead on. ‘Fucking silly idea. Did you fancy a bit of embalming practice?’
‘I did it to stop him scratching himself, to lessen the chance of infection.’ Waiting for Sherry to unfasten the tailgate and move some of the equipment to make room, Webb’s arms ached abominably when at last they were able to push the chemical’s victim into the back of the Rover.
Much less gently, Gross swung his portion of the casualty inside, slamming shut, the rear door without making any effort to arrange Edwards comfortably. ‘Well he’s asleep isn’t he? Christ,’ he became indignant at the looks the others gave him, ‘with all the problems he’s got what difference is a ruddy stiff neck going to make?’
‘You are an animal.’
Breathing heavy alcoholic fumes over her, Gross nudged the woman. ‘Just parts of me. Want to see a cock that wouldn’t disgrace a stallion?’ His clumsy grab at her breast met only thin air as she stepped beyond his reach. Stuck up whore! He’d have her yet, every way he could, every way there was, and then some.
‘Right, well I’ll just collect the medical kit then, and we can be on our way.’ Webb pretended not to have seen the attempted indecent assault. The woman had a reputation, and if she didn’t complain about the lout’s advances then there was no reason for him to concern himself. And besides, she appeared quite capable of taking care of herself, and if he did intervene and it came to a physical conflict between him and Gross, he could not be certain of coming off best. Slight lingering qualms he might have had about leaving them together were allayed when the inebriate followed him back inside the inn.
‘Thought I’d lay in a stock, to tide me over until we reach the commie lines and they top us up with vodka.’
Webb half hoped the fall he heard on the cellar stairs meant Gross had sustained a disabling and painful injury, but the drunk heaved himself back to the bar a few minutes later smothered in cobwebs and burdened with many bottles. ‘We don’t have the room to take all those.’ The protest he made, Webb knew would be ineffectual.
‘Oh piss off. With old Holy Joe gone there’s loads of sodding room. If you still say there isn’t then I’ll chuck out the other old git.’ Blearily he examined a label.
‘Can’t stand red, tastes like weak ink.’ He shied the bottle at a boar’s head over the door, lurching unsteadily. ‘So far you’ve been giving all the orders, well from now on I want a say, and I say we get our priorities right. He waved a burgundy over his head before sending it at the candles. The room was darkened instantly, bottles clinked noisily. ‘These are my priorities.’
Offering no further argument or resistance, Webb groped his way to the door. Glass crunched underfoot. All he could hope was that the uncouth Gross would swiftly drink himself into a stupor. The man’s capacity for alcohol was legendary, but surely even he had to have a limit.
Watching him sprawl on the rear seat of the Range Rover, leaving the door for others to close, and start on a fresh bottle, Webb began to have doubts.
The food had gone cold, but Rozenkov didn’t notice, spearing a white dumpling that floated half submerged in the scum of grease on top of the fast congealing gravy, and pushing it and half the handle of the fork into his mouth. His jaws clamped tight and the prongs withdrawn were as bright as if just polished.
Beside him the radio chattered and crackled. He didn’t miss a word, occasionally flicking the tuner to select another channel. It was not as good as being there himself, but it was the next best thing.
A timid knock at the door and a pink faced young junior sergeant entered, stopping yards short of the desk. He had to cough twice before he could speak. ‘The colonel has finished his meal?’
‘Can you clean boots?’
Confused by the officer’s unexpected question the soldier stumbled a hesitant affirmative.
‘Good. When I take a new post I always like to start from scratch. You will look after me. I do not have time for petty detail. So long as my uniform is not crawling and my car is always ready when I want it, you should do. Can you manage that?’
‘I think… Yes, Comrade Colonel.’
‘At last. You are the first in this building I have found prepared to commit himself. You can clear away… wait… this meal, who prepared it?’
‘Sergeant-major Gorbatov, Comrade Colonel. You did not like it? He is usually very good, he was cook at our Washington embassy for five years. Very often he has cooked meals for…’ Realizing he was being indiscreet he stopped abruptly.
‘I know what you were going to say. Sometimes my predecessor would lend him out to party officials to cater for private parties, in return for certain favours. Who is Gorbatov’s assistant in the kitchens, what is he like, speak up man.’
Any idea the junior sergeant might have had of softening or colouring the truth evaporated when the officer raised his voice. ‘It is Private Zhiraev, he… he is not a good cook. Gorbatov is always shouting at him. I think they are, that is I think they may be related, by marriage.’
‘And Sergeant-major Gorbatov, probably at the prompting of his wife or mother-in-law, is keeping the dolt here, far from the dangers of the front line. Another of the cosy arrangements that have been so much a feature of this department. Tell Private Zhiraev he is now in charge of the kitchens, tell him that as long as he does not poison anyone, without having been ordered to do so, he can ignore all complaints from my staff. He can refer them to me if they are persistent.’
‘What of Sergeant-major Gorbatov, Comrade Colonel.’
‘He is to report to Lieutenant General Akenshin at the department of satellite surveillance control at the ministry of defence.’
Ignoring the soldier’s departure with the tray. Ro-zenkov turned back to his map. Every thirty minutes during the afternoon Major Morkov had come in and moved the yellow markers a fraction to indicate the GRU units’ latest reported positions. In a rough circle the lemon topped pins converged on the pencilled projected route the civilians were likely to travel, but they weren’t closing quite as fast as he might have expected for such well equipped troops. And between two or three of the encircling companies there were larger than usual gaps.
‘Get me Lieutenant General Akenshin at the defence ministry.’ Rozenkov continued to study the disposition of the yellow markers as he waited for the call to be connected. ‘Hello, Gregor, it’s Rozenkov… Thank you. It is still subject to confirmation, but, I think I shall yet make your exalted rank. Gregor, I have been able to do something for you. Do you still enjoy your love affair with your stomach… I thought so. I am sending you a chef I have discovered. Try him, you will not be disappointed…Well yes, there is something. If I give you some coordinates can you
let me have a fast breakdown of activity in the immediate area, say within a hundred miles… The Zone, southern sector, Bavaria…You can…? Yes, ours and theirs, especially ours… Excellent, enjoy your meal.’
As he replaced the receiver, Morkov came quietly into the room and working from scribbled notes on a pad moved each of the pins.
‘Your men are spread more thinly than I’d expected, Major, even in that area. See, there are large gaps, here and here.’ Slouched in his chair, Rozenkov indicated where he meant by raising a leg and kicking at the locations, indenting the map into the soft plaster backing it.
Major Morkov sought any reason to be worried by those seemingly reasonable words. Though he found none, he began to perspire, and itch inside his smartly tailored uniform. ‘As the colonel must know, there are never enough men or vehicles to do everything precisely as-we would wish to.’
‘Probably you are right, though I must admit, of late I have been gaining the distinct impression that the GRU has been obtaining all of its requirements and more, at the expense of KGB military units.’ Enjoying a thin smile at the liaison officer’s difficulty in immediately refuting that, Rozenkov declined to go in for the kill, choosing to let his prey run a while longer. He saved the major from having to find an answer.
‘No matter. If those are all the troops you have available, then they will have to do. I am sure you would produce more if you could.’ Able to breathe again through a windpipe that nervous tension had constricted, Morkov made an excuse and left. In the corridor he paused to dab beads of water from his brow, and scrubbed the dampened handkerchief over his palms.
He could hear Rozenkov move about, and strained to hear what he was doing. For a moment he had half expected the colonel to come after him and order his arrest, it was with great relief that he heard the distinctive squeal of the drink cabinet being opened. So he was safe, and the overwhelming sensation of realizing that ruled out any further speculation as to what the head of Department A might be doing next without knowing the position of all his opponents’ pieces. Such an advantage did not have to stay the monopoly of his adversary. The game was now more complicated, more dangerous.
It was tempting. Rozenkov held the red pin between thumb and forefinger, but finally decided to replace it in the hole it had occupied beside the map. It was too soon to make his move yet, he would hold his men back until the picture was clearer. At this stage he strongly suspected he was having to play the game.
ELEVEN
‘They can have left only a few minutes ago, perhaps ten, not more.’ The reading Boris obtained from the infra-red detector was strong. Residual heat still radiated from the ground where the Range Rover had stood, and a higher level of emission from the ground below its engine even betrayed in which direction it had been parked.
‘Damn.’ Revell didn’t conceal his annoyance. He’d been counting on the civvies calling a halt during the hours of darkness. ‘Ten minutes or ten hours, it makes no difference. That wagon of theirs can outrun us. We’re never going to catch them in a tail chase.’
‘There’s short cut we could take, Major.’ Using a hand-held torch to illuminate the map board, Hyde indicated a side road that turned off the autoroute to cut through the mountains and rejoin it forty kilometres further east. ‘Those civvies have stuck to the main roads so far, doesn’t seem too likely they’ll change tactics in mid-course. If we can manage a decent speed over the high ground then we should come out in front of them, with time to arrange our own reception.’
‘Can we keep up speed?’ There were attractions in the suggestion but the success or otherwise of the idea rested on whether or not the battle-weary APC was capable of maintaining the performance required.
Burke shrugged. ‘The engine’s oil tight, and now it’s thoroughly warmed up it’s not running too bad. I’ve driven much worse further and faster. If we’ve already discovered the only weak link in the track, and if the transmission holds together, then we must be in with a chance.’
It was his decision and his alone, Revell was very aware of that. If they lost the trail, for whatever reason; if the civvies turned off before the roads rejoined, or if their rendezvous with their Russian friends was somewhere between here and the junction, then he’d failed.
But damn it, what ever arguments could be raised against the NCO’s suggestion, it came back down to the fact that on present form their pursuit must fail. They couldn’t count on the civilians stopping again. If they wanted a slice of good luck for a change they were going to have to cut it themselves.
‘Okay, we take the turn-off.’
During his deliberations Andrea had been beside him, occasionally leaning against him as she looked at the map. Her presence, her proximity made him feel good. A great effort of will, of self control would be involved, but he’d have to take things slow with her, not rush it.
It was probably by accident that Thome’s hand brushed against her breasts as he reached between them for a water bottle being passed around. Certainly Andrea made nothing of it, and she’d always been fast enough slapping aside any deliberate attempts to feel her body, but Revell reacted all the same.
‘Keep your hands to yourself.’ Immediately he regretted his interference, wishing the engine had started a moment earlier and drowned his words. Still he was not sufficiently on guard over his jealousy, he would have to strive harder to keep it in check.
It had been a long time coming, longer than he’d expected, but it was no surprise to Clarence that Andrea had at last battened onto the major. Systematically she had worked through most of them, like an apprentice butcher eager to learn every aspect of the craft, how to cut and hack and mince flesh in a thousand different ways.
The Uzi submachine gun felt unfamiliar in his hands, and he glanced at the weapons rack to check that his Enfield sniper rifle was still safely secured. It swayed a little as the Marder lurched on turning off the autoroute onto the back road. The major’s assault shotgun was next to it, its huge twenty round drum magazine dwarfing the grenade discharger barrel on Andrea’s M16 next in line. Even their rifles were together.
Not that there was anything the officer could have done to speed the selection process, bring his turn faster. Andrea set her own pace, made her own rules.
The ride became rougher, and the Marder began to climb. The instruments indicating the level of contamination outside of their steel cocooned world, that had fallen dramatically since they left the grey woods, began to rise again.
As the angle of ascent became steeper Clarence had to exert considerable pressure on the bench and floor to prevent himself from sliding into Dooley. There was nothing he could do to stop Andrea from sliding into him.
The contact of the warm length of her thigh did nothing for him, no woman had, not since that Soviet Bomber had crashed on the married quarters in Cologne, and his wife… and children.
As so often they did, those thoughts drove all else from his mind and only gradually did he become aware that Revell was glaring at him. For a moment he didn’t understand, then comprehension dawned as Andrea shifted slightly to a more comfortable position and he felt her move against him.
Ordinarily he would have wasted no time in distancing himself from that physical contact, but the major’s attitude prompted him to uncharacteristic behaviour, and he stayed where he was. The glare has deepened to a scowl, and to get away from it Clarence closed his eyes and leaned back against the hull feigning sleep.
In his mind he conjured pictures of the sort of country they were traveling through. His thoughts projected images of steep and rugged hillsides, often covered by dense forests of firs and pines, and in places gashed by deep river gorges and outcrops of frost shattered rock, and here and there, where the slope of the land was not so severe, a few cleared patches where farms clung to the valley sides. He had only to move his head a little, open his eyes and the image intensifying lens in his periscope would have enabled him to check the accuracy or otherwise of his imaginings.
; The night was no impediment, the special glass would concentrate what little light there was and enable him to see as clearly as in day, but he didn’t bother. He had seen enough of the Zone already.
Beyond the armoured wall of the hull the landscape they passed did resemble the sniper’s picture of it, the mountains and craps and cliffs and valleys were all there, but they lacked the furnishings of trees and grass and clear water he’d set on them. The basic contours of the land were there as they had been before the war, but there any similarity with the tourist brochures ended. Defoliants had stripped the trees of leaves and needles. No blade of grass remained, and with it had gone the patterns of the meadows that had marked out the farms. A few hardy, or miraculously fortunate plants survived, but now they looked alien in a panorama of lifeless decay where death was the norm.
With even their root systems shrivelled and destroyed by the constant showers of yellow rain and other Russian chemical weapons, the trees no longer bound the soil to the slopes and erosion on a gigantic scale was adding its contribution to the man-made havoc, silting and damming the rivers. Mud slides also blocked the road in places, and from the glutinous mounds projected lance-like lengths of snapped off timber.
Rarely shaving more than a fraction from their speed as he tackled each, Burke made scant allowance for the dangers of the slippery slopes. On one the tracks began to spin as loose material carried them toward a vertical drop to a debris-laden river several hundred feet below. They found traction again just in time, driving clear as part of the slide avalanched over the edge, taking a section of the road with it into the depths.