A Damned Serious Business

by Gerald Seymour

  Would sleep – her head was close to Boot’s locked door – would sleep well.

  He passed the ferry boat’s disco lounge.

  Boot had chosen an eccentric route to Estonia, was on the night crossing from Stockholm harbour to the port of ?Tallinn. A strange choice but with purpose: lack of trust.

  The music blasted at him and lights spun in bright circles from ceiling attachments in the bar and a few couples were on the floor. He had to be there, in place, at the end. It was required of Boot that he should be on the bank of that wretched river that divided the cultures and histories and régimes of his world and Moscow’s. Duty ensured that he was available either to welcome back and then hustle away his team, or that he should be present to take responsibility for the dismantling of overt evidence of the mission should the manure be in the ceiling fan . . . Not something that Boot would have delegated to Daff . . . And there was the matter of ‘trust’. Good people, the Estonians, and with a proven intelligence-gathering apparatus, and blessed after the years of occupation with an understanding of what was across the river, the enemy. Boot had never shed that word from his vocabulary, enemy. But . . . but . . . the KaPo ranks were still inhabited by older men, buried away and barely noticed, career officers who had collaborated with KGB until the Soviet Union’s collapse. They’d still furnish the dead letter-boxes around Tallinn. He’d have risked being noted had he flown into the Estonian capital’s airport, and Daff was already there and a degree of cooperation would have been required for the launching of the fireworks a few hours earlier. So, without fanfare, he would come off the boat in the morning with a few tourists and some businessmen and the drivers of the big lorries. He would come in like a shadow.

  He paused. Music blasted his ears. Boot seldom danced with his wife. There was an annual dinner for local traders and shop owners and it was understood between them that he escorted her, but stayed firmly in his chair when the band played. Plenty of other men walked her to the floor . . . On their schedule, the great battle and Boot’s little skirmish, this was the night of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, the society event of the year in Brussels, and the Duke was there, and many of the girls of London society and the cream of the cavalry and officers from the Guards; the Duke maintained an austere calm and give no cause for anxiety. Messages would have come to him continually, and some say he was distracted and poor company for the girls, others claim he rode the evening well . . . His ears were dinned by the loudspeakers’ bar music but Boot stayed by the door, was a voyeur, and kept a watch and some danced serenely and others hurled themselves round the handkerchief-sized floor . . . and they did waltzes and the gallopade, and there were sword dances by officers from the Gordon Highlanders, and one more message had come, brought by a mud-spattered courier and carried across the floor, past the Duchess of Richmond, and given to the Duke. A frown perhaps, a moment of gritted teeth; the despatch told him that the French armies were farther forward than he had believed, had gained twenty-four hours’ advantage. The epic quote: ‘Napoleon has humbugged me, by God’. And girls abandoned as wallflowers and officers leaving in droves to rejoin their units and march or ride away into the night, and some young men would fight, and would die in their evening dress . . . Boot turned away, sought the elevator that would take him up to his cabin. Perhaps because this was, in his opinion, the most significant mission he had launched in his professional career, he had taken the parallel timetable of the battle, his amateur obsession, and woven the two together, dovetailed them. He would walk alongside the Duke on Copenhagen, close to his stirrup, and would learn. Learn from a consummate leader. Was he humbugged?? Boot did not know. Was he tricked, deceived? Had arrogance betrayed him? Boot could not say.

  A strong wind blew across the Baltic sea, and the ferry ploughed forward and he no longer heard the disco below . . . At that time, as the band had played on, the young men would have left the girls, perhaps with a locket on a chain hanging on their chests and under their finery, perhaps with a lock of hair secreted in the breast pocket of an undershirt, and the wagons carrying the cannon and their ordnance would have been on the move, and the cavalry, and the carts that brought forward the implements of the field surgeons.

  Boot doubted he would sleep.

  Could not say if he were humbugged, and could not intervene in any worthwhile way. Always the same when an operation was launched, the waiting for news and the vacuum of knowledge . . . It might be a great day in his life and might be the worst he had known. Boot undressed carefully and lay on the bed. He was in the hands of others, as the Duke had been; raw and exciting and pivotal. He switched off the cabin light and heard the rhythm of the engines and saw the bleak darkness through the porthole.

  Best foot forward.

  Daff had counted the number of lit cigarettes in the car. Three. Probably meant they had two cars but had come together for warmth, for conversation, and to salve the boredom. Always the best response when the subject of a stake-out . . . She used her heel to shut the front door of the block behind her.

  Her bag had been partially packed by the Maid, and included a small jar of cocoa and another of Bovril, and one of coffee, instant. On the tray were two mugs of cocoa and two of Bovril. She walked away from the block on Igor Grafov street and towards the bulk of the cathedral. The wind buffeted her and the rain lashed her and she thought it a foul night to be huddled in a surveillance car . . . and a worse night to be loose in a forest and heading for a rendezvous. She did the carrying expertly, and liquid hardly spilled from the mugs and her hair blew behind her and her coat splayed, and the car went dark and she would have created a devil of confusion, all fags squashed out. The ground squelched under her feet, and when she slipped she held on to the tray.

  They might have wondered at first, after she had emerged from the building, that it was chance that took her in their direction. Not when she was halfway across the open space and was the only person out on a bad night and coming with gifts . . . Would they have known, the surveillance boys from the KaPo, about the dangers of a wooden horse? Of Greeks bearing gifts? Would they have assumed that she, with her tray of steaming drinks on a night when the wind came from the snow-bound north-east, whipping the Baltic, was a ‘hostile’? They should have, but did not. A rear door opened.

  ‘Thought you might enjoy these, boys.’

  Space was made for her on the back seat, and the drinks seized, and she was thanked, was everybody’s friend, and the cigarettes were out again, and she’d taken one. They’d talk, she was confident. Might not get much sleep – but then neither would Merc – and they’d gossip and she’d listen, and the cocoa and the Bovril would warm them, and the clouds of cigarette smoke would thicken . . . She wanted to learn their fall-back position if it went wrong on the far side of the river, and if it went wrong what degree of help could be expected. It might go wrong and most would be scrambling to protect their backs, and she needed to know if aid would be denied her.

  ‘Really grateful, boys, for the show tonight, the fireworks. Excellent stuff.’

  She was a hit, a star, and talk flowed: she learned a bit and they learned nothing. Laughter rang from the car, and the rain sluiced on the windows and leaves were blown across the open space towards the cathedral and flew past the windscreen. Daff was good at her job, but was far from the front line.

  ‘You ever been scared, like this?’ Kristjan’s question.

  They all laughed, none meant it. Toomas was the eldest and Martin was the youngest, and they were all past their forty-fifth birthdays and short of the forty-seventh, not kids, not frightened of the dark. They were parked in the lay-by and the night was close around them. The wind seemed to funnel up the road. They heard trees break in the forest, like pistol shots.

  ‘I never felt scared like this – not even in Kaliningrad.’ From Kristjan. ‘Not even when we bugged out from the roulette place . . . not like now.’

  ‘Not always easy, Kaliningrad, but not like I’d shit . . . Sorry, guys, sorry. Feel ba
d here.’ From Toomas. ‘Worse . . . and stuck here and waiting, and older.’

  ‘Young in Kaliningrad, and it’s a long time back, and I remember the goons in the bar, and she was great meat, and I was in there, and . . .’ Martin said it, quiet but hoarse. ‘Not ashamed, I am scared bad.’

  Headlights came from behind them, a vehicle travelling from Ivangorod, and they were on full and Martin, who was in the driving seat, had his hand up to shield his eyes, and swore, and Kristjan beside him swore but softer and said it was the police, and Toomas had a paroxysm of coughing that was stress. An interior light showed two police, uniformed; the vehicle stopped alongside them and the driver eyed them and the passenger climbed out, looked reluctant and clamped his cap on his head. He was bent against the gale and came to the near side.

  A squeak in Toomas’s voice. ‘What the fuck do I do, what do I say?’

  ‘Tell him to go screw your mother – how do I know what you say, just—’

  Martin did not let Kristjan finish. He wound down his window. ‘Hi, officer – you always have this weather? The worse weather I know about. Heh, thanks for stopping by, we’re just killing some time. We’re fine, not a problem. Don’t want to get to that big lovely city in the dark. My friend is an idiot with navigation, so we’ll head on when it’s dawn . . . We have good tickets for the Ice Palace, for SKA . . . That makes us lucky dicks. Thanks for checking up on us, we really appreciate it.’

  And Martin showed his appreciation, and the rain fell hard on the uniform, its back and its shoulders, and Martin reached out with a fifty-euro note in his fist and slipped it into the officer’s hand, and then his cap came off and was blown down the road. It was retrieved, the police car drove off.

  Martin said, ‘We should not have done this.’

  ‘I feel I want to throw up.’ Toomas trembled.

  ‘Should not? Try this, don’t have to.’ Kristjan stammered.

  ‘What is “Don’t have to”?’

  ‘Easy . . . Turn around, get the hell out. Go back, get over the bridge . . . I’m doing shelves by lunchtime . . . Tomorrow Toomas is getting cash off tourists, all in his armour, Martin is opening up his paint pots again.’

  ‘Just walk out on it?’ Martin rolled the words.

  ‘Just walk out . . . Who is going to come after you? Some crap people in São Paolo? They going to come and get their money back? How they going to do that?’ Kristjan clapped his hands, like it was a done deal, no more argument. ‘I learned it quick. That goon walking towards us and the pistol bouncing on his hip – and Martin was fantastic – and what I learned was that I have no stomach for this. I say, turn around.’

  ‘We don’t owe them anything. Don’t owe that woman anything.’

  ‘I been more scared than I can remember. Are we agreed? Turn around? Pity about the Ice Palace . . .’

  The door opened beside Kristjan, and the night and the storm flooded the back of the vehicle, and the ceiling light came on, and the stranger pitched in a rucksack, eased himself inside, and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Morning, guys. Thanks for waiting up for me.’

  ‘’Fraid I’m not much of a sight, slept in a barn. Stink probably, animals in with me. And my clothes, they smell too, mud and wet . . . I’m called Merc – not a proper name but what everyone calls me. An understatement, pleased to see you guys . . .’

  He needed to calm them and knew it. Sensed the mood, and saw their faces: no welcome.

  ‘Anyone have something to eat? I’ve some fresh clothes in my sack. I’ll change in here. Don’t suppose you had much of a brief? Nor me – but the money’s useful – yes?’

  He had watched for twenty minutes. Had seen the police draw up alongside and check them over, had been on his stomach and close enough to have noted the hand snake out and palms meeting. A lorry had gone by and had lit them . . . deep in talk, If it had been squaddies, or contractor boys, there would have been gallows’ laughter and joshing, but this had been serious talk, and none of them had seen him break cover and come forward. The driver’s fingers had been on the ignition. He spoke English to them and they understood him well enough . . . He thought he’d interrupted a conspiracy.

  ‘Hardly want to strip off in the open. It’s the last of my dry stuff. They didn’t think it clever for me to go head to head with the border control so it was across the river and through the forest, and here I am. Guys, just let me put some fresh stuff on and then I want to get you up to speed.’

  Three men outside their safety zone, stress building. If he had stayed in the darkness under the trees, the engine would have coughed to life, and the lights come on. The vehicle would have edged forward and come to the lay-by’s exit point, done the wide swinging turn and gone back up the road, towards the river, would have been at the bridge in fifteen minutes . . . and they’d have disappeared.

  For him? Not a whole bunch of options, precious few alternatives to hitching a ride up the road, rucksack on his back – if anyone would stop for a guy who looked like a scarecrow and had slept in a barn full of animals. Then get somewhere he could hot-wire a car, sit behind the wheel and open a map and head for sunny St Petersburg, and try to pick out a supermarket on the way where there was a decent-sized parking lot. And if he stepped clear of the car with his bag and started to undress and get out the last of the dry stuff then it was likely they’d head off. He’d not have run after them, not with his trousers in the dirt and clean underwear around his ankles. He changed in the car, wriggled like a ferret . . . It would be about his voice and his manner, why they had plucked him off Hill 425, lifted him from the Fire Force Unit. He could not get the damp and cold off his skin. The one sharing the back with him refused to make any eye contact, stayed quiet, and those in the front had their heads down. His advantage, he believed, was their refusal to act, throw him clear. He had to lift them, would have one chance, had to get it right.

  ‘No one told you much, nor me. We call it Mushroom Management . . . the big people in the company are not greatly interested in things down at our level, and in their opinion we are expendable, deniable. My opinion is different. Listen. We are not expendable – repeat it, not – not deniable. We get paid, poorly, but I’ll change that, believe me. What is Mushroom Management? It is “kept in the dark and fed on shit”. Not any more. What I know, I share . . . We go in, and I lead and make decisions. If I ask for advice then give it to me. We’ll do what we are tasked to do, and get the hell out, back to Narva and safe, my first promise. My second is that I will get to that woman, the one who hired you, and me, and I’ll get a pay hike out of her. We are a top team, remember it.’

  Done quietly, no hesitation, not the crap that officers used. It was what Merc believed in, the worth of little people – he was one himself – and what they could achieve. He tried to exude confidence. They gave him their names, haltingly, and he made sure that he held each of their hands, Martin’s and Toomas’s and Kristjan’s, and took a cigarette from the front passenger and told it like it was. Like he would have done on the Forward Operating Base bunker, or to the Afghan lorry men in a convoy he was escorting, or to the boys who rode shotgun on the escort detail down Route Irish . . .

  Chapter 9

  He saw the creep of the dawn light.

  Merc was alert, had not slept, would not have taken that risk. This suspicion of him did not surprise him. They would have smelled his body, and he smelled their alcohol. He had made the speech and reckoned it unwise to repeat it. The road was flanked by thick forest, dense pines and ditches were lapping with rain-water. Set back from the road were small homesteads; some already had smoke crawling up into the rain from stacks, and some had dull lights showing. Few cars passed them, and hardly any lorries were headed towards Ivangorod and the crossing over the bridge to Narva.

  Merc understood them. A good idea at the time – out of money when the offer had been made. They had the map on a phone in the front and he had told them where he needed to be and when. They did not talk among themselves, and the
one in the back with him – Kristjan – kept close to the door, made no contact. Out of the trees suddenly, and a swing to the left and they drove alongside a revetment that held back floods when the river burst its banks. Then a sharp turn to the right and the bridge was ahead. Daff had said it was the last river to be crossed before the straight run on to St Petersburg, and there was a militia barracks. She might as well have signposted it as a risk point, but had done it with a shrug. He’d seen towering pylons with long cables slack beneath them and a chemical plant that belched a grey-white smoke then merged into the cloud, and a sharper light waved at a lorry and van ahead of them, and directed them toward the control point.

  How frightened were the guys? Had his talk made any difference to them? The lorry’s headlights caught the militiaman who was waggling the torch to slow the driver. It could be routine, what they did every Thursday morning on the outskirts of Kingisepp. It could be the result of an intelligence leak, and a mantrap for an agent of foreign power. He sat low in the seat, unshaven, his outer clothing caked from the bog and some of it still flecked with straw from where he had rested, and traces of sheep and pig droppings . . . not the average guy bumming a ride into the country’s second city. The breathing quickened around him, and an oncoming lorry’s lights showed the sweat on the driver’s neck. Merc saw the chicane of white-painted oil drums. A torch was played on the cab of the lorry; it carried a load of new timber props, fresh-cut pine. He had a pistol . . . about as useless to him as a box of chocolates, and it was a dead weight in his pocket and he was considering dropping it behind the seat. Nobody did a course on going through a road-block: might be the check they did on that morning every week, and it might be random, and it might be the end of a run before it had left the start line. The lorry pulled away, and a van took its place.