by Robert Wilde
Once the ice cream was finished, Pohl leaned back and said “I’m glad it’s paying for this call.”
“Okay, I have some news,” the phone said as it barked into life.
“Do enlighten us.”
“Using the British file as a starting point I have searched the Russian system.”
“You can hack into the Russians?”
“Yes. Now, I can’t actually find an address for the base, but I have found references to it: Russia is huge, the USSR was bigger, and when they stopped using things they just sat there, abandoned. No one built over them, or knocked them down. You’ve seen the urban explorers who go wandering through Soviet asylums and find all the files?”
“Yes, I love their photographs,” Pohl admitted.
“Well the same has happened to this base. It’s out there, in the middle of nowhere, just sitting and waiting. The gun and the notes on it are waiting to be found. I suggest we are the people who find them.
“A trip to Russia? Joe will be pleased.” Pohl smiled, but the Array had other ideas.
“I suggest leaving the box, Russia can be very difficult.”
“That’s a fucking understatement,” Nazir added.
The Array had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that the documents Pohl had gone in with looked real, as they weren’t so much forged as slipped out of the channels that would issue such a thing. It didn’t want Dee’s friends to get arrested, and had made sure Pohl would not be arrested or detained and could survive any check of those details. It had also wiped the security camera footage, so once Pohl had gone there were just the eyewitness accounts of soldiers who hadn’t tried to memorise anything should someone want to chase up. In short, Pohl was safe and untraceable.
But that did not mean the situation had passed unnoticed, or without consequences. A few days later a man in a crumpled suit put down a cup of strong tea, looked at a register of who’d been in and out of various archives, and noticed a name he didn’t recognise. He then double checked, found authorisation for that individual to go, but simply by going they had done something unusual for that archive, and protocol had a layer which demanded he send the information on.
A woman in a far smarter suit drinking coffee from a proper machine received the details that someone had visited that archive, so she leant over, picked up a phone, and rang the bunker. A bored soldier dreaming of running, being shouted at, anything, was asked to organise a check of the archive, and when he returned at six o'clock that evening he reported that two rooms and two boxes had marks on them where dust had been removed. The woman then cross referenced the box numbers with the index she had, a heavy, handwritten document kept apart from the rest, and noted someone had looked up Soviet soul weapons.
There was a line in the protocol for this, and she made a new phone call.
“Hello, this is Peters,” came the reply.
“Is that the cross body committee on souls and related research?”
“Yes, that’s us,” Peters thought, although cat herders anonymous would have been better.
“I have some information for you,” and soon Peters was in possession of the knowledge that someone, currently untraceable, had accessed a file on Soviet era research into weapons to destroy ghosts.
“Sorry,” Peters said, “did you just say weapons to destroy ghosts?”
“Yes.” She was matter of fact, as if that was not in the slightly bit unusual.
“That’s… that could be very important. Do you have the file?”
“One is missing. Someone took it.”
“Ah.”
“But we have everything on microfiche in another bunker.”
“Wait, you do? No one told me the first archive existed, and you’ve got a backup?”
“We learned from the Jack the Ripper debacle. You tell people something exists, they steal it. Case in point. And we didn’t tell anyone about the fiche. Your clearance is so high you will be permitted a copy of the documents. They’ll be on your desk soon.”
Peters put the phone down soon after. Why did everything have to have layers and layers?
Nazir put his bag on the table, and smiled at the customs man. The customs man gave a look back that said ‘I know you’re a terrorist brown man, and when I find a bomb in this suitcase you’re going to wish you’d tried to blow up the US.’ Nazir was used to people finding the words ‘Syrian’ on a passport slightly suspicious, which was why he was travelling disguised as a British citizen, but he was still not very customs pleasingly white and Britain wasn’t highly regarded in Russia anyway. Which was partly why Naz had been tempted to wear a rainbow coloured t shirt with the words ‘cock hunter’ on it to see how quickly he could get deported back to ‘Blighty’ or whatever bollocks he had to call it in character.
He’d decided the Array would be as unhappy as the Russians with that turn of affairs. However, when the customs man had scrupulously gone through the suitcase and found nothing he could complain about he picked up Nazir’s tablet.
“Turn this on,” he barked in quite good English.
Nazir did and presented the device. It looked, weighed and scanned just like a common make of tablet, but there was a program the array had hidden on it which they all thought would be very helpful: take a photo of something, from a sign or a page of text, and the program provided an instant and full translation. Not on the market yet, but very handy. Assuming it wasn’t confiscated.
“Can’t go without my Twitter,” Naz smiled, and the device was shoved back in his hand.
“You can go,” said a man who looked like he’d just missed out on Christmas.
Soon Naz was walking over to where Pohl was waiting. “Hello Professor, your research assistant has passed customs.”
“I bet this place has a great gay scene,” Nazir said provocatively as they walked out, although he did it in a whisper only Pohl could hear.
“An end of Weimar sort of thing?” she asked back.
“Exactly, exactly. So, how many stars has this hotel got?”
“We’re undercover, and I believe it has running water, towels and breakfast. Anything else is a bonus.”
“Good thing we’ve been given as much money as it takes to hire a reliable car. Well, I say car, one of those ‘the apocalypse is coming let’s have civilians with tanks’ sort of things is what we need.”
“They’ll have you advertising them soon enough.”
“How is the Russian phrase book coming?”
“I believe I have enough to book us in, book us out and get us a car considering we won’t be bartering over the details.”
“Good. Although we could just eat at McDonalds, that’s bound to have the same menu.”
“We have not come all this way to eat Big Macs,” Pohl complained in an exaggerated voice.
“No, we shall consume a Russian delicacy. Vodka.”
“I walked into that one.”
“Are you checked into your room?”
Nazir laughed as the voice came out of Pohl’s phone, which was lying on the bed in front of them. “I’m surprised you haven’t checked the GPS to find out.”
“I have, but that doesn’t tell me if you’ve checked in, just that you’re there.”
“Okay, not scary at all. But yes, we’ve eaten, got checked in for the night, and have a vehicle. I won’t say car. Tomorrow we will buy all the bits we need, and then we can set off. There’s just one small thing left.”
“Which is?”
“Where is this place?”
“That is a good question, and it has taken me a while to find out. The name of the base, the address, and the road to it isn’t on regular Russian maps, by which I mean civilian maps. I bought up maps the council's use, and it wasn’t on those either. Tax, emergency services, flood defences, I couldn’t find it anywhere. I then went back, to what maps I could find online, and there happened to be a handy archive of maps an enthusiast has been compiling from old Soviet military documents which really could do with a home
. I downloaded his entire website and everything on his computer before the Russians get upset and turn him off, and I’ve been able to find the road you need to go down, and then watch out for the right turning. I will send you a copy of the map.”
Nazir wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or scared at this point, and he was leaning to terrified.
“There is some bad news.”
“It’s full of armed bastards?”
“No, I can confirm via satellite imagining that there is no military there now. But it’s so far out and so old there is no reception on your mobiles, tablets, etc. If I had time I could source you a satellite phone, but I expect you want to get a move on.”
Naz looked at Pohl, confidant the Array couldn’t see his face, and conveyed ‘I think we’ll both be happier if it can’t talk to us’ and was pleased to see her understand and nod in agreement.
“We’ll be fine,” Pohl confirmed.
“So what does it look like?” Naz asked.
“I have seen it from the air, not street view, but it’s a complex of buildings, all interlinked, so you’ll have to go exploring, with several layers of chain fence all around. Buy yourself some wire cutters.”
“Not too militarily then.”
“They didn’t leave any tanks lying about, I know this is Russia, but not this time. I expect it’s weapons free. The roof is intact though, so the contents should be.”
“Good, good. Anything else?”
“Well, you’ll have to sleep in your car at times.”
“We could camp out!”
“We could not Nazir.”
“Okay, no camping out. But that does give me an idea.”
“You did rent a quality vehicle?”
“Yes, we really did. The last thing any of us need was getting stuff in the Russian wilderness. Dartmoor is bad enough.”
“What did you mean earlier, when you said camping gave you an idea?”
Pohl and Nazir had spent the last hour organising their route and drawing up a shopping list but now, as her mind ranged over the conversation, she’d started wondering.
“The sort of sly gay reference progressives hate.”
“Right, but about what?”
“Well,” and Nazir looked up from the tablet, “it’s, hey, this thing really works.”
“On topic?”
“It is, sort of. We’re in Moscow, right, where a government is turning against gay life. So Moscow must have a great gay scene hidden away, and I want to see it, so I’m just seeing if I can find any sort of reference on this.”
“You’ve been given a state of the art translation machine that can turn written Russian instantly into English, and you’re using it to find a gay night out?”
“Hell yes. Am I being judged here?”
Pohl shook her head and laughed. “A little bit.”
“Good, anyway, I think I’ve found something. This website is all about a group of Moscow men who meet up and confound the hate.”
“Stop trying to make this sound noble.”
“It does fall down when I tell you they adopted the name Dick Wolves.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s after a cartoon or something, anyway, there’s an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts where they’re having a party tonight.”
“We are not breaking off from the mission to party in an abandoned warehouse.”
“I thought you’d say that, but there’s a meetup for drinks at a friendly pub this evening too. No fancy dress, just people meeting to go on.”
“Ah, and you think I’m going to let you swan off to a pub for this.”
“No, I’m inviting you to come along too. It’s a pub, we can feign ignorance if they get raided.”
“We are not doing this.”
An hour later and they were walking through the door of a certain drinking establishment.
“Check it out,” Nazir said in hushed English.
“You’re the one being checked out,” Pohl confirmed, as many eyes were on the male half of the newcomers.
“Well I am gorgeous.”
“I feel like a mother at a school disco.”
“Okay, that’s pretty disturbing. So, what would you like to drink?”
“Something local.”
“Wow, you want the special stuff that gets us drunk in two shots?”
“This is a bar, not an episode of a sixties spy serial.”
“We’re James Bond!”
“We are not James Bond, we are tourists. Slightly lost tourists. Who are not going to get arrested.”
“We are here just to talk.”
“Good. Although I feel we should point out again none of us talk Russian, so unless there’s an international language of homosexuality, this could become quite an adventure.”
“You see, you’re getting into it now. Right, let’s go and get some booze.”
“I hope that translator works on lawyers.”
“We really should have bought an MP3 player along. Or a CD player, or one of those portable wi fi nodes so we could stream from my cloud.”
“I think this music is quite charming.”
Nazir took his eyes off the road, turned to Pohl, and said “really?”
“No,” she grinned, “I demand you return me to the realm of Jazz FM immediately.”
They had been driving for several days and the radio stations had offered many different takes on pop music, none of which the current, non-target audience found helpful. But Pohl had a thought.
“Isn’t this what your club's sound like?”
“Well, yes, but I’m drunk by then. Worst Muslim ever.”
Pohl waved the map. “I feel like one of those rally drivers’ friends, the ones with the maps that shout out the instructions.”
“I can always speed up if you want?”
“Let’s save that for the abandoned roads.” Pohl didn’t want the police around.
“Yeah, we’re still in occupied territory yet. How far are we from losing civilization?”
“We’ve come a long way, and we turn east at the next, well turning, and then we’re off into the great unknown.”
“Our love affair with cheap Russian hotels comes to an end.”
“Indeed it does.”
“Ever slept in a car before?”
“Are you enquiring into my youth?”
“Yes Professor, yes I am.”
“Well, I have. Although nothing as substantial as this contraption. Although contraption sounds ramshackle and this is the proverbial tank.”
They soon made the turn, and suddenly the occasional outpost of buildings disappeared and they were pushing across roads that had seen better days. As the night fell, and with the maps consulted, Nazir pulled to the side of the road.
“This seems as good as any,” he said, looking behind him.
“A quick meal and then some sleep?”
“Yes, what do we have to eat?”
“As much Pirozhki as we can eat, some interesting cheese, bread, cold meats, vodka and coffee.”
“Thank fuck pasties seem to be an international dish.”
“There’s also the petrol cans in the back, they probably taste much the same as the vodka.”
“It was cheap vodka wasn’t it? At least we won’t be hungover.”
“No, we’ll spontaneously human combust.”
“We should so investigate that.”
A meal was served and eaten, legs were stretched, and then the seats were reclined back, a blanket was produced, and the pair settled in for the night.
“Don’t take this the wrong way Nazir, but this is quite romantic really.”
“You think so? I could see that. Vast sky, middle of nowhere, jacked up on cheap booze.”
“Well, you have killed that thought.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“Do they have bears out here?”
“Sorry?”
“Russia, do they have bears and wolves and things?”
&n
bsp; “Perhaps we should have considered that before we came out here without guns. We should have demanded guns.”
“I’m sure there’s no bears.”
“If there are, throw the vodka at them and hope they’re all drunkards.”
There hadn’t been any cars on the road for a considerable time, they had this stretch all to themselves. Nazir had long discovered he enjoyed speeding through this emptiness, nothing human around, just nature and the wild, but his views weren’t shared by Pohl, who longed to pass through a bustling town with shops and people and people buying coffee from shops. They’d shared the driving, swapping over every few hours, and had managed to sleep without interference from animals, although they wondered if the bears were out there, lurking away, desperate to invent a can opener.
It was afternoon when Nazir pulled the car over and gently nudged Pohl, who’d fallen asleep, the sound of Euro pop having lulled her into a stupor. “I think this is the turning,” he said as she murmured and woke.
“Sorry, err,” and she held up the map, “it was the next left.”
“Well, this, a good few hours later, is the next left.”
A dirt track disappeared from the road into trees. It wasn’t in the best condition, and they’d clearly have a bumpy ride, while the trees pressed hard on the sides of the road.
“Right then, shall we have a look?”
Nazir nodded, gunned the car and turned it onto the road. Soon they were passing through the trees, trying to peer into the wood at either side.
“If you see any bears scream and I’ll put my foot to the floor.”
They didn’t have to bounce down this road for too long before something finally human emerged. Ahead of them a fence rose into view, something eight foot tall with barbed wire round the top, chainlink, stretching out to the left and the right of them. Beyond that they could see another fence, although the no man’s land was now a riot of flora and presumably fluffy forna.
“We have a base,” Nazir smiled. “Which way now?”
“This road goes all the way round, but I think the shortest route is that way.”
“I’ve an idea. Let’s do a full circuit in the car, just to see what we’re dealing with.”
Pohl nodded agreement, and Nazir drove on. They were able to peer through the fence and see buildings beyond, concrete structures which looked like something a fifties architect would have built in trendy parts of Britain, and which would have been torn down a few decades later for being rubbish. Amazing, the glass windows all seemed to be intact.