He was holding a German Luger admiringly. Mika gave him ammunition.
We piled into the lorry and drove back across the causeway and then on through the thickly wooded countryside. It was snowing again heavily now, and our progress was painfully slow. We passed no one, saw nothing. The land was deserted, empty except for an occasional animal, momentarily trapped in the glare of our headlights, eyes flashing like stars and then vanishing as it raced away into the night.
After two hours we stopped. There was a muttered conference in Finnish.
‘This is as far as he can take us,’ Mika told us. ‘The road has become too dangerous.’
‘We can’t stop here,’ Krasov said frantically.
‘Now we go on foot.’ Mika’s expression wasn’t encouraging. I imagined he was worried about whether or not the diminutive Russian would last the journey. Krasov looked at him as if he were mad.
‘Road is too dangerous, snow is up to our waist, and he tells us walk.’ He leaned against the side of the lorry and groaned in misery. ‘Here I am staying. I will not move. Here I will die.’
Mika unloaded skis from the lorry and handed them round. Hammerson took a pair for Krasov and fitted them on, whispering encouragement to him as he did so. There was something almost tender in the way Hammerson treated him. He was doing it out of affection and respect for the man, and Krasov appeared to respond.
‘Keep together but not too close,’ Mika instructed. He and the others had carbines slung over their backs.
We set off down a gentle incline, pushing our way through the winter skeletons of birch trees. I tried to imagine what it would be like in summer, islands of silver birch floating in green meadows on the side of a long rolling hill, under a wide blue sky with the soft grey water of the inland lakes stretching into the distance. But the thought did nothing to keep out the cold.
‘We rest here,’ Mika said some time later. We had reached a summer house deep in the woods. ‘Then we begin the last leg of our journey.’
One of the minders started a fire while Mika gave us brandy from a flask. Slowly, our frozen bones came back to life. Krasov was exhausted, too tired even to complain. Hammerson looked after him like a child, finding him a corner where he could rest, wrapping him in a rug to keep warm, bringing him food.
I had lost track of time. I hardly knew whether it was day or night. The daylight was over so quickly it hardly seemed to matter. By now the wooden house was warm. I settled in a chair and slept intermittently. Krasov snored in his corner.
‘He did well,’ Hammerson said, indicating Krasov. ‘You have to give the little guy his due. He’s tougher than he looks. There’s some strength in that body, despite its size.’
‘Have you done this journey before?’ I asked Hammerson. If this was to be our last night together, I was determined to find out as much as I could.
‘Once. Some time ago now.’ He seemed reluctant to say more. ‘Krasov isn’t their usual cargo. That’s been the trouble all along. Their heart’s not in this.’
‘What is their usual cargo?’
‘Balts.’ He said. ‘Estonians, Lithuanians, Latvians; not your genuine asshole Red like Krasov. Reds by coercion, the guys who can’t swallow the ideology though it’s all they’re given to live on. The good guys. The opposition.’
‘There isn’t an opposition in a one-party state,’ I said, rather too smartly.
‘There is – it’s underground,’ Hammerson said. ‘We call this the lifeline, the escape route for Balt nationalists. We bring them out when things get too hot. There are a number of these networks operating across the Baltic states, left over from the war. I guess, for the Balts, the war never ended.’ He pointed at the sleeping forms of the three Finns. ‘That’s why they’re edgy. Russia is the enemy and Krasov is Russian. This cargo smells.’
The cargo in question stirred and murmured something in Russian but did not wake up.
‘Why did they agree to take him then?’
Hammerson smiled. ‘I called in my marker.’ It was all he would say.
I tried to question him about his involvement with these Baltic peoples. How did it start? When? Hammerson smiled through his evasion.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘I have a simple view of the world. You have to stand up for your beliefs. These people are oppressed by a system they didn’t choose. They can’t be what they want to be, what they have a right to be. In my book that’s bad. I’m on the side of freedom. The guy who’s taking it away from them is my enemy.’
‘Isn’t there more to it than that?’
‘You tell me then.’
There was an edge to his voice which warned me off. For some reason I didn’t understand, he wasn’t going to tell me anything more. I changed the subject.
‘What brings Mika into this?’
‘The Finns had a hard time in the war. Mika lost a father and a brother. He can’t forgive the Russians easily.’
‘And Tanya?’
Hammerson laughed. ‘You’ve met Tanya, have you? She’s his sister.’
‘What’s she to do with all this?’
‘Not much. Mika doesn’t involve her unless he has to. She’s a doctor. We needed a doctor to get Krasov across the border.’
‘Where’s she gone now?’
‘Back to Helsinki, I guess. That’s where she lives.’
I must have slept after that because the next thing I remember is Hammerson shaking me and saying: ‘We’re moving out, Danny. We’re on our way.’ He turned to Krasov. ‘Last leg, my friend. Not far now. Imagine you are walking to America.’
I looked out of the window. It was very dark and the wind was blowing the snow into drifts. It was going to be a cold and difficult journey.
We set out in single file once more, crossing fields and forests. The sky had cleared and the moon was up, draining the landscape of colour but etching every outline black against the snow and making our shadows look like pools of darkness sliding silently across the ground.
We were following the edge of a forest, moving along the top of a sweeping hillside, keeping always within sight of the line of the trees so that, at the first sign of danger, we could slip back into the shadows.
I was the first to see the other skiers. They were below us, just above the base of the valley on the opposite side. There were four of them, visible only briefly as they too kept close to the line of the trees. But occasionally one, then another, would break out into the open, only to disappear again. At first I thought they were hunters looking for game. I could see the guns on their backs. Then I knew they were shadowing us, that we must be in their sights. They were still hunters but now we were the quarry. I called to Mika and pointed down the hill. He waved us back out of sight into the trees. He had taken his carbine off his shoulder.
‘What’s happening?’ Krasov’s anxieties returned.
‘There are people down there,’ I said, pointing. ‘I don’t know who they are.’
‘Russians,’ Mika said, scanning the valley through binoculars. ‘Looking for us.’
‘If we go back into the woods,’ Hammerson said, ‘we should lose them.’
‘Too slow,’ Mika said. ‘We have a deadline for the rendezvous and it is only safe for our friends to wait a short time. We must keep going, only faster. There is only one way now and that is forward.’
We started again, a greater urgency in all our actions. The slope of the hillside was in our favour and our speed improved. From time to time I looked down and though there were moments when I thought we had outrun our pursuers, always a figure reappeared, only to vanish again. They had found us and were not going to let us go.
‘We won’t make it at this rate,’ I heard Hammerson say.
‘We have to make it.’ Mika was grim-faced.
But the decision was not to be ours to take. A branch above me shook with a sudden vibration and snow fell on to to the ground. I looked down the valley and saw a n
arrow arc of white light streaming silently towards us. I watched it snake up the hill, marvelling at the swift beauty of the line, before the muffled crackle of explosions reached us, like distant fireworks. Then the single line became a chorus as others joined it, lines of light that lived and died in seconds. It was an uncanny, almost surreal experience, the uneven patterns of the tracer bullets bursting out against the dark sky and then dying away, followed by the delayed sound of muffled crackles from deep in the valley. The trees around us echoed as bullets buried themselves in wood or whined uselessly away into the darkness beyond and shook with the explosions. Snow fell from the swaying branches above us.
‘Looks like World War Three’s begun,’ Hammerson said. ‘Just what we didn’t want.’
The pattern of our response was professional. Hammerson and Mika were responsible for Krasov and they pulled him along as fast as he could go. The two minders, their carbines at the ready, were already crashing down into the valley, concealed in dead ground. They were to divert our attackers while we were to be given the chance to escape, even at the cost of their lives.
It was then a question of move and countermove, a deadly ballet of diversionary fire from the Finns while we pressed forward; the answering counter-attack from our pursuers. Then more fire from us down the hillside, while the two Finns changed their position, followed by another burst from them drawing answering fire from the Russians while we moved forward as fast as we could.
Our pursuers were not getting any closer, but nor were we escaping. It was as if we were inextricably joined to each other, Siamese twins each bent on driving the life out of the other.
There was a sudden cry from behind us. I turned to see Krasov fall forwards, sliding away from us over the rim of the ridge, his arms grabbing helplessly at the snow as he slithered backwards down into the hollow of dead ground below us. I thought he must have been shot. But as soon as he came to a halt he shouted for us again and we knew he was all right. Hammerson was already going after him, plunging through the snow, and when he reached Krasov he grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Krasov appeared shaken but unhurt.
‘Come on,’ I heard Hammerson say. ‘Climb. Climb.’
Mika had taken up a position behind a tree and was giving covering fire to Krasov and Hammerson. I watched them clamber up together, Hammerson encouraging Krasov forward as fast as he was able. For a moment the firing stopped and there was an eerie silence broken only by gasps for breath from Krasov.
‘Help him,’ Hammerson called to me. ‘Give him a hand.’
The last few yards were up a steep snowbound slope to the ridge on which we stood. This part of their ascent was fully exposed to the view of our pursuers below. I secured my foothold and leaned over the edge, reaching down as far as I could. Krasov’s progress was painstakingly slow and he was still too far away for me to get hold of him. He was finding it a very difficult climb and he kept losing his grip and sliding backwards into Hammerson’s arms.
‘OK, we’ll try another way,’ I heard Hammerson say.
He started climbing himself, diagonally this time, leaving Krasov where he was. He dug out footholds in the snow and made a platform for himself. Then he reached backwards, took Krasov’s hand and pulled him up. Slowly, they came towards us, Hammerson leading the way, digging out the snow in a ragged staircase for the little Russian.
As they came fully into view, the moonlight making their dark outline easily visible against the snow, the arcs of light from down in the valley burst out again, chasing them as they zigzagged up the last yards of the slope. I was lying full length on the snow now, both arms reaching for Krasov. He was a few feet from me, struggling against the steep slope to find the grip that would drag him over the edge to safety. The marksmen below were finding their range and bullets started to crack all around us.
Then the streams of light found their quarry and converged on Hammerson, and with a cry he fell forward in the snow. With agonizing slowness he began to slide head first down the hillside. Krasov looked round and shouted for him. I grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety. Behind him, as the hillside gave way steeply, I saw Hammerson plunging downwards faster and faster, out of sight and out of range. I saw the Russians clambering towards his still form.
Krasov moaned in despair. I wanted to fire at the ant-like figures swarming up the hillside.
‘No.’ Mika grabbed my arm. ‘No time for that. We have to go on.’
‘We can’t leave him there.’
‘He’s dead or dying. We can do nothing for him now.’
He pulled me after him, and then Krasov. With almost superhuman strength he dragged us through the woods and down to the road. There, waiting for us, its engine turning over, a plume of exhaust visible in the night air, was a lorry. Two figures emerged and ran towards us. They spoke in Finnish to Mika who pointed at Krasov. They took him by the arms and bundled him into the lorry and drove off. It was all over in less than a minute. No time even for goodbye.
‘Now we find Hammerson,’ Mika said.
It took us more than an hour to climb back up the hill. The night was still clear but I could see no sign of our attackers. After a time we picked up one minder, then the other, both unharmed. From the expressions on their faces, they had enjoyed themselves. I wanted to know how they had got on but I was too breathless to ask Mika to translate for me. He seemed in no mood to talk.
We retraced our steps to the point where Hammerson had fallen. I could make out the course of his body as it fell down the snowy hillside. It had torn a path in the virgin snow. Carefully, we climbed down after him. The snow had drifted here and sometimes we fell in it up to our waists. As we went down, the minders indicated with casual sweeps of their carbines which way our attackers had gone. It seemed we were safe enough not to worry about cover.
We reached the bottom of the hill. There was no sign of Hammerson’s body, though there were marks in the snow where he had come to rest. There were other marks, too, footmarks, imprinted in the snow. Our enemies had removed Hammerson.
‘He must be still alive,’ Mika said. ‘They’d never bother with him dead. I do not like to think what they will do to him.’
He made it sound as if he were writing Hammerson’s epitaph.
*
I was sliding out of control, my hands tearing at roots, branches, grass, anything that could stop my fall. But the roots came away, the branches broke and the wet grass gave me nothing to grip on. Faster and faster I fell, my body jarred and bruised as I bumped my way down the rocky surface of the hillside. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop myself and the certainty of what was happening terrified me. It seemed such a pointless way to end one’s life.
I saw the sand below racing up to meet me and with what little consciousness I had left I braced myself for the impact, no time even to wonder if I would survive. But there was no shock, no sudden grinding stop as my bones and ligaments were crushed and torn by the weight of my own body: only a gentle deceleration, like being in a slow-motion film. I was standing upright on the sands, staring at the waiting ship only a hundred yards or so away and the thin line of soldiers snaking towards it.
Then the explosions came, bullets tearing up the sand dunes and bombs bursting all round. I saw the bodies of men disintegrate in front of me. One moment there were groups of soldiers, the next nothing but fire-scarred flesh and horror. I fell on my face, the grit of sand in my mouth, my hands tight around my head, trying desperately to shut out the horrifying sights and sounds of the battle and make myself invisible.
Through the smoke and the screams I heard a voice say: ‘I cannot imagine dying on a beach.’ And the dead and the dying on the beach rose up and turned their broken bodies towards me and mocked me with their laughter.
I woke up then, my body shaking with fear and my head still full of a noise I could not recognize. The bombs and the bullets had gone but I was in darkness and could see nothing. I could not remember where I was.
‘Are
you all right?’
Voices near me, unfamiliar voices. Hands came out of the darkness and touched me reassuringly on the face and shoulder. At least I knew I was alive. The high-pitched rattle of mocking laughter stopped.
Someone said: ‘Don’t turn the light on yet.’
I knew then what had happened and I did what I always did on these occasions. I murmured: ‘I’m sorry. Sorry.’
A woman’s voice asked: ‘Do you want a drink?’ She handed me a glass of water.
‘Was I shouting?’ I asked.
‘Screaming.’ It was the woman again. ‘And hiding. You were face down on the bed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Someone switched on a light in the bedroom. I saw Mika and Tanya and the mess of the bed in which I had been sleeping. In my nightmare I had wrecked it.
‘Are you all right now?’
I nodded in response. My throat was too dry to speak.
‘It’s three o’clock. Try to sleep. If you want anything, call.’
I didn’t sleep again. I relived my life since the beginning of the war. But this time I was in command of the demons and they lay quiet.
*
‘Does it happen often?’
It was morning. I was drinking tea in Tanya’s apartment. I had no idea where Mika was.
‘The nightmare? No. Not often.’ That wasn’t true. It happened more often than I dared admit to myself.
‘What makes it happen?’
‘If I knew that,’ I said, ‘I’d be able to control it.’
‘What do you dream about?’
‘The war mostly. Memories of war.’
‘What stimulates those memories? We say we cannot remember something but we store every event of our lives in our minds; it is all there, waiting like an old film to be rerun some day. But with time these events sink deeper and deeper. They break up, fragment. They are not lost. They are only harder to find, more difficult to reassemble. The mechanism we have for retrieving those memories is not strong. It is not well-trained. It has difficulty in reaching deep enough.’
Making Enemies Page 21