Thunder

by Anthony Bellaleigh

  Nagpal was standing in the middle of the room. All of Sergei’s scant possessions were scattered untidily around the man’s feet. He watched as the man finished flicking through one of the textbooks, and then threw it carelessly onto the piles.

  “Tell me again about your journey here,” Nagpal growled. “From the start. Miss nothing out. Did you speak with anyone? Did anything strange happen? I need to know anything out of the usual. Anything at all.”

  Sergei shrugged. His disenchantment with this man had continued unabated since the careless proclamations regarding his brother’s death, and now this – his few belongings ransacked with no regard or respect for his privacy. “I’ve already told you everything,” he said coldly. “A few casual conversations. All guarded. None that would have betrayed us. The minimum I could manage without blowing my cover by remaining mute.” Except, of course, he hadn’t told Nagpal everything – he hadn’t told his leader about his brief fainting attack. As far as Sergei was concerned, it hadn’t happened again since that one time in Poland and, given that he’d puked his guts up not long afterward, he’d written it off as being food poisoning that had triggered it. He certainly wasn’t going to make himself look, even in the slightest part, weak in the presence of this animal.

  There was a small black box sitting on the corner of the nearby table which he only noticed because it suddenly bleeped. Amber LEDs started flashing on the box’s lid.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Nagpal was staring at him, face full of fury. “Keep still, Sergei. Don’t move.”

  Sergei watched as the man collected the device and walked closer to him.

  The bleeping intensified.

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  Nagpal reached out and roughly pulled the heavy coat he was wearing off his shoulders. Then he violently thrust the young man to one side.

  Sergei stumbled amongst his possessions and fell untidily to the floor. Spinning himself over, he watched as the madman kicked and stamped at the coat until, finally, somewhere near the wide collar, his colleague’s Saint Vitus Dance was met with a crunching noise.

  The bleeping box fell silent.

  Hatred was painted all over Nagpal’s face when he slowly turned around. “They got to you somewhere, boy. They know where we are. They must have bugged the bag too. Sikand is dead because of you...”

  Suddenly Sergei felt sick. He shook his head. “They can’t have...,” he muttered.

  “THEY HAVE...!” raged Nagpal and Sergei cowered back at the stabbing force of the words. “Perhaps that’s why your brother died too...!”

  ‘Don’t say that,’ thought Sergei. ‘Please don’t say that...’

  Nagpal turned away and took a couple of steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned back to him. The furious expression was gone. A more familiar bland half-smile flickered across Murat’s thin lips. He had changed back to chillingly rational in the blink of an eye. Except this man could never be described as rational. Sergei knew this now. He wished he’d known it years ago.

  Nagpal wandered casually toward him, stooped down, and carefully swept the box over Sergei’s prone form. It remained silent. “It finds bugs,” he explained, voice disturbingly composed. “Not very well. It’s the best I could find round here. It won’t find complex devices. See?” He held the device to a cellphone. “Can’t even find this. I should be grateful that whatever they put in your coat was a cheap old piece of rubbish. Perhaps they expected us to find it? Who knows?”

  Sergei carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position.

  “We have to go,” Nagpal said, moving toward the apartment door. “Pack your stuff. I have to make a call and find us some new phones. Be ready when I return.”

  ~~~~~

  Skala Kallonis

  It doesn’t take long for me to start moving around again. Albeit unsteadily.

  I’m sitting in one of a pair of comfortably cushioned wicker chairs which sit on the shady veranda in front of Jack’s little villa. The building is a simple dwelling, with whitewashed cast-concrete walls and red half-moon tiles, and has a multitude of rambling lavender-flowered Wisteria clinging to its cornices. It stands, isolated, in its own grassy patch of field, surrounded by a low drystone wall which Jack continuously fusses over with varying degrees of constructive success. He is busy messing with one of the sections at the moment.

  Further down the gentle slope, past his industrious activities, a tranquil blue sky with the merest scattering of fluffy white clouds overarches wild scrubland. Beyond that, I can see the flat calm waters of the Kolpos Kallonis – a huge, almost completely enclosed lagoon which cuts deeply into the island of Lesvos and turns the island into a large inverted ‘C’ shape sitting, as it does, a few short miles off the coast of Turkey.

  The only noises come from screeching birds, or clanging goat bells, or the occasional fishing boat chugging lazily out toward the ocean. It’s so quiet that at times you think you’ve gone deaf. Except, of course, when Jack’s busy wall-building.

  “Bollocks!” His loud curse cuts through the tranquil balmy air.

  I smile to myself as he athletically heaves himself up, and over, the tremulous structure to retrieve whatever it is that he’s just dropped on the other side.

  I hoist myself, less athletically, out of the chair and hobble gingerly toward the cool interior. I sense a short break and cup of tea will likely be welcomed by my ally and friend. The last time his industry went unchecked, there was less wall after he finished than before he’d begun.

  “Tea break?” I inquire loudly over my shoulder and his fist emerges, thumbs up, above the stony fence-line.

  Inside the villa the main room is a comfortable rectangle, furnished with a random collection of traditional furniture, pictures, and mysterious looking brass objects. It extends the width of the building with a small dining-kitchen, surprisingly modern toilet-come-shower room, and the main bedroom all accessible via three unpainted wooden doors which spread along its far wall.

  I head for the open kitchen door, and past the room’s small and rarely used open fireplace. I can’t help but glance at its wide mantel as I pass. I know that Jack looks at it too, every time he goes in and out.

  On it stand photos. Each one carefully dusted, with their frames meticulously clean. Photos of eight smiling young men. All with close-cropped hair. All looking proud to be wearing their uniforms.

  The last photo is a group shot. Nine strapping examples of male physique at its prime. Each of them posing confidently, in muscle-rippled vest tops and thigh-packed shorts, as they stand there in front of a cluster of flapping, dust-blown, camouflaged tents. They’re all wearing wide-brimmed hats and expensive looking sunglasses to guard against what looks like a burningly bright sky.

  Jack is the ninth man in this group. The picture is of his section, or squad if you prefer.

  He was the one who made it home.

  A slightly older version of this ninth grinning face appears in the veranda doorway. He must’ve jogged up the hill to have got here so quickly.

  “So, is it ready yet?” the face asks with a familiar cheeky grin.

  ~~~~~

  London

  Greere walked back into the office from his latest update briefing with Sentinel. He looked as frustrated as he usually did after such encounters.

  Ellard struggled to understand why Greere had such a problem reporting in to his boss. Sentinel seemed to be remaining supportive. If anything, he had appeared to be surprisingly pleased with the outcome in Hungary.

  Ellard did however find it curious that a picture of Sikand had conveniently found its way, via some banal news channel, to every mainstream broadcaster worldwide. He suspected that someone, somewhere, possibly Sentinel or one of his mysterious superiors, was subtly making sure that the results of their endeavours were being made public. Even if the means by which they were reaching those ends were not.

  “Any updates?” Greere spat at him odiously.

&nb
sp; “Still nothing from the borders.” Ellard was spending most of his time monitoring chatter from the Hungarian borders. Some grainy CCTV images of Tin and Mercury, taken during the sprint across the city centre, had been circulating quietly within the various Hungarian Security Agencies. They weren’t particularly brilliant quality but he’d fully expected to hear about one, or both, of them being apprehended. So far they hadn’t – much to Ellard’s mild irritation – and he knew that the longer it went on, the more likely it was that they’d successfully got away. “They’re probably holed up in some village. Unable to move until Merc...”

  “They’re long gone,” Greere interrupted him forcefully. “Tin will have jumped straight away, and I’ve said so many times.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ellard turned back to his terminal, frowning at the rebuke.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” Ellard replied curtly.

  Greere stared at the distant wall. “It’s a shame we lost that second bug. Perhaps we should have trusted Tin with more than just one of the expensive ones?”

  Ellard shook his head. “That fuck-wit was lucky to plant what he did. He’s not even as clever as the semi-smart ones he stuck in Ebrahimi’s bag and coat. Do you want me to activate the last one and try to get a fix on where Nagpal and Ebrahimi might be?”

  Greere looked across at him, and reached up with one hand to imperiously push his slick black parting back into place. “No. I have discussed this matter at length with Sentinel. His view remains that we shouldn’t risk activating the last one for a while. He says it’ll either be there or not. We’re keeping the political pressure on Turkmenistan to make sure the terrorists remain unwelcome there and surprisingly, for all their more usual procrastinations and avoidance activities, the Turkmen are complying very comprehensively. Especially toward the targets’ immediate families.

  “Nagpal and his only remaining cell-member can’t risk going home so it’s almost certain that they’ll stick together for a while. Sentinel says there’s no point activating the beacon and risking losing it before we find out where Tin and Mercury are.

  “Unless... of course, you’d like to go and get your hands properly dirty again...?” Greere raised his little caterpillar eyebrows over the partition.

  Ellard privately agreed with Sentinel’s assessment, but he also didn’t like the inferences that this little worm of a man was making. Greere might be his superior but Ellard had a career history that made Greere’s look like he’d been a fucking wet-nurse all his life. Ellard’s hands had already been very dirty indeed. “I’m hearing a lot of what Sentinel thinks...,” he ventured tauntingly, and was pleased to see his superiors eyebrows clenching above his little pug nose.

  Greere turned to his terminal and started typing. “I think he’s right for once,” he said to his keyboard. “Deuce?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ellard decided he’d better play things a bit more respectfully for a while. His secret stash wasn’t quite big enough to risk falling out with his boss.

  “I’m feeling thirsty... Fancy a coffee?”

  His boss going for coffee? Surprised at this unexpected offer, Ellard inched his head up slightly so he could see over the partition. “Sounds good,” he replied carefully.

  Greere glanced across at him. “Good. I’ll have an extra shot latte with three sugars,” he snapped. “And get a fucking move on.”

  ~~~~~

  Skala Kallonis

  He has a moped here; a beaten up, ancient, old scooter. It’s nothing at all like the thoroughbred racing machine we straddled whilst we were catapulting ourselves around Budapest.

  For the last few days we’ve taken to riding it down to the sea.

  It’s not far.

  As usual, he’s jabbering away in front of me and pointing out all sorts of growing, creeping or flying creatures and fauna. His voice is soothing to listen to. Then a kamikaze fly finds its way into his always-open gob and suddenly he’s swearing, coughing and spitting the rogue beast out to one side in a stream of bug-riddled phlegm.

  I try not to laugh, but can’t contain it.

  He can feel me shuddering behind him as I fight my mirth-driven convulsions, and this triggers another cursive tirade, and another captured fly, and another seriously meaty globule flying past my ear, and now he’s laughing as well and the bike is weaving from side to side across the dusty trackway...

  We continue down the hill and the track dwindles rapidly into a narrow pathway. Jack steers us, with confident familiarity, between the crowding undergrowth and shrubs, along this strip of battered weeds. The pathway is, at times, inches wide. A barely passable trail trampled flat by this bike and perhaps the occasional meandering predator or goat. It leads us down to a small and pleasant, completely isolated crescent of deserted beach – part gravel and then soft sand – which spreads, gently shelving, into the almost flat-calm waters of the bay. The waters, I know, are crystal-clear and packed full of hermit crabs, shrimp, tiny fish, urchins and the occasional baby jellyfish.

  Bursting from the undergrowth, and out onto the edge of this oasis, Jack quickly parks the bike. Then we leap off, tear off and toss aside our already scant clothing, and race each other down into the cool waters...

  Well, he races, buttocks pumping like pistons in front of me, and I half-stagger along behind him enjoying the view.

  “YEAH!” he roars, thrusting both hands into the air like he’s won the one hundred metre sprint finals. “Winner!” he spins around, pointing vigorously at his sea-spray glistened chest. “Loser!” both of his arms extend, hands held in ‘L’ shapes, toward me.

  Then he spins on the spot and dives headlong into the cool refreshing waters.

  He can be so childish sometimes.

  ~~~~~

  The Caspian Sea

  Sergei tugged industriously on the nets as he hauled their heavy burden on board. He could feel the strain of recent, regular exercise across his chest and biceps.

  “You should join us,” the fishing boat captain shouted across to him in Russian. He was a tall man; wildly raven-haired and heavily bearded. “I won’t keep asking you. Men who know how to work the nets are hard to find.”

  Sergei huffed modestly. He glanced to where Nagpal was hanging limply over the railings at the back of the rolling ship.

  The captain saw his glance. “Lazy, good-for-nothings,” he continued pointedly. “They’re easy to find. Seriously, you should think about it.”

  Sergei was thinking about it.

  Murat Nagpal had remained highly volatile, ever since they had left Constanta. One second he was entirely lucid and rational, seemingly tolerant of Sergei’s presence. The next he was a ball of pent-up fury, raging and shouting. The younger man was losing count of the amount of times Nagpal had threatened him.

  They had taken a ferry across the Black Sea to Anapa, then a rental car across land to Makhachkala, where they had found this fishing vessel preparing for its voyage into the Southern Caspian. Nagpal had offered the captain a substantial cash bonus if he would be prepared to make a short detour. The captain, short of crew, had accepted, providing Sergei could work.

  Sergei could work. He’d learned much during his elongated journey across the Baltic and, if he was honest with himself, he was enjoying being part of a ship’s crew again. This was the kind of camaraderie he’d expected as part of the whole ‘Independent Khandastan’ adventure but there had been no feeling of security, confidence or trust when surrounded by thugs and madmen like Hossein, Sikand and Nagpal. He had been a fool. He knew this, and he knew it had cost his brother his life.

  Still, the last remaining madman had promised they were going home.

  “It will be a long and difficult journey,” Nagpal had said as they strode toward the docks, back in Constanta. “The final chapter of this great and heroic story.”

  Sergei hawked up the phlegm, that was rising in his mouth at the memory of his leader’s endless rhetoric, and spat forcefully over the side. Then, pulling the last of the
nets clear of the water, he turned back to the captain. “I must go home to see my family first,” he said, thrusting the bundle of dripping hemp down onto the wet decking. “If it’s okay, I will come and find you afterwards,” he added hopefully.

  The burly captain stepped close to him, as they readied themselves to tackle the haul of fish, and reached out to put one arm around Sergei’s broad shoulders like a father welcoming home a prodigal son. It was the briefest of masculine contact, and the simplest of hugs, but it spawned the first feeling of happiness that Sergei had felt for months. “I look forward to it, Youngster,” the captain pronounced and, together, they set to work on the catch.

  ~~~~~

  Skala Kallonis

  I lounge, enjoying the warm kiss of mid-afternoon spring sunshine, perched almost comfortably on the abandoned tractor tyre that he uses as a beach sofa. He is lying nearby, face down on his towel, with a floppy cloth hat draped over his head, snoring like a badly tuned diesel engine.

  The boat is moored off shore. Jack has explained that it was our taxi, and carried us first along the shoreline of the Black Sea, then through the narrow straights straddled by the metropolis of Istanbul, then along the coast of nearby Turkey and then, finally, out to sea for the short hop over to Lesvos itself. It’s not the sturdiest of craft and appears to attract shouts of, what sound to me like, lighthearted derision from the various local fishing boat captains but Jack just smiles, and waves at them, when they call out. Personally, I think he’s quietly relieved it made the journey safely.

  The boat clunks lazily against the orange plastic float of its swing mooring. This gentle thumping is the only noise in otherwise blissful silence – if you ignore the squawking of the birds, the splashes of jumping fish, the buzzing insects and the purring of my partner. Its tethers loosely hold it so that it drifts back and forward, not quite restrained, not quite able to meander off into the distance... ‘A bit like me,’ I muse to myself. I am also caught up amongst forces stronger that I truly understand, tethered temporarily to a homespun anchorage, burdened with momentarily latent duty and deigned to fulfil a purpose not of my own volition...