Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  And there was the material that had come in that day. Hadn't gone through the files yet to find out what the pattern was, whether it was new, on-going. But he'd do some typing after lunch, string it all together for Parker Smith's In Tray. Sort of material the Minister liked to have when he was having a hard time at those conferences; it made the man feel that at least he had something up his sleeve. Gave him confidence, Charlie supposed, when he was in for a good kick in the crutch from those humourless bastards. Wouldn't want anything too long, Ministers never did, about half a dozen lines. But a policeman shot and nothing in the Kiev press, that was out of the ordinary. Straight criminals, then there would be no shortage of news print. But nothing on this one, not a public whisper - that's why it was different. And someone else thought it interesting, otherwise SIS (External Services) wouldn't have noted it, and the paper wouldn't have been duplicated and categorized so that it might find its way to Charlie's desk. Showed there was a bit of life in the old system after all, if they could pick up pin-pricks like that. So perhaps there was something going on, something for him to think about Quite interesting really, if you had the time to look into it. And Charlie Webster had the time.

  The source of semi-automatic weapons had been known to David for some months, but he did not reveal it to the others in the group. It was a particular knowledge that he treasured, that he wished to keep to himself. The decision not to spread the information had come a long time before, when he had resolved that if ever there was the possibility he would be cornered then he would sell his life, and well. Being taken alive and put through the courts and the due process of law was an obsession for him, something he told himself he would never accept, whatever the feelings of the others, whatever they would do if the cordon closed tight around them. He would never come out with his hands high, never.

  He had come across the old man by accident - had wandered into him in the forest and then been aware of the frightened, primitive eyes that had peered through the trees at him. Faint and sparse hair that was touselled. Clothes that were torn and patched and torn again and were too heavy for the summer weather but were needed for the winter cold of the forest. Hands that were shaking and claw-like and that rose to protect his head lest the intruder should strike him. The bearing of a woodland recluse who forsook company, believed that it brought only danger. David had talked to him and smiled and used soft words and broken down the old man's reluctance to talk. On his visits to their own hut, some three miles away, David would come earlier than the rest, so that he could bring food and, at first, fresh clothes to the old man; the food had been eaten, the trousers and jackets and woollens ignored. David had learned of the man's history, and what kept him in isolation and hiding. And the more he learned the greater the worth of the old man became to the plans he was fashioning for the four-strong cell.

  It was a long journey Timofey had travelled. He was from the farmlands south of Moscow that lay behind the German winter line of 1942 running from Zhizdra, through Orel, and on towards Kursk. His town was Sevsk, and in that spring a man called Kaminski had come with a letter in his wallet that bore the signature of Generaloberst Schmidt, commanding the Second Panzer Army. Kaminski became the local governor of all the towns round Sevsk. His authority took in the communities of Navlya, Dmitrovsk, Dmitriev and Lokot; he had the power to appoint civilian officials, and most important of all he was answerable only to Generaloberst Schmidt. Timofey's collective was one of the first that Kaminski 'liberated'. The land was divided, the animals apportioned along with the farm equipment and stock, and in return the workers enlisted in the local militia to fight the communist guerrillas with an expertise that was beyond the alien German troops. It had been Generaloberst Schmidt's brilliance that he had possessed the foresight to realize the potential of men such as Kaminski, and using the carrot of individual land ownership he had derived the benefit of this unexpected source of manpower. Prior to Kaminski's time farmers like Timofey had watched with apathy as the guerrillas came at night to replenish their food stocks from the yards of the collectives; now they were directly affected; they were losing what had been made their own. The life of the guerrilla became harder, his reception at the darkened farmhouse more hostile. The next step was logical enough. The new militia were formed

  into units for patrolling their property and ultimately for hunting down the guerrillas. As a tactic it was a great success for the Germans; their allies were self-sufficient in abandoned Soviet weapons, anti-tank guns, machine-guns and mortars; they became military formations and safeguarded the access routes. Timofey had a position of rank, commanded a platoon-sized group, was a noticed man. And then the line to the north sagged, and there were bulges and salients before the Germans were gone, pushed back towards the distant Polish frontier. The Red Army reoccupied the towns where Kaminski's word had ruled. There were many now that could name those that had collaborated. Timofey's picture was displayed in the square at Sevsk. There was a reward for his capture.

  Three submachine-guns and a rifle he had taken with him as he had foot-slogged south, moving at night, keeping away from the roads and the towns and the villages all through that long summer of 1943. He had entertained a vague hope that he might assume a new identity in Kiev, that the confusion of war would allow him to reappear without need of explanations. There had been many times when he had thought that the time was ripe for him to throw off his solitary exile in the forests and make the break from the past, but it would have been a great step and he never quite could bring himself to it. Five, six, perhaps seven times he had stood on the edge of the line of trees at the great road that ran towards Kiev and braced himself to step out of his sanctuary . . . but he had never been able to accomplish it. And as the years went by so the task of self-rehabilitation became even harder, till he had made for himself a permanent prison in the forests.

  Thirty-five years he had been there now. Through the discomfiture of sores and bruises and spreading scabs, the pain of his ailing teeth, the frustration of his fading sight. He was paid a few kopecks by the dacha owners, who asked nothing more than that he should watch over their properties in the winter, and a few more coins for the wood that he brought them for their fires in the spring and in the autumn. Not that he had any use for the money. And they left him to himself, his memories and his hatreds, seeing him only as a harmless, pathetic, sometimes laughable figure, with a marginal usefulness that protected him from denunciation.

  David whistled a warning of his approach when he was still a hundred yards from the old man's hut. Then he stood stock still and listened after the harsh notes that Timofey had taught him, and heard the answering call; it had started as a sort of game, but that was before the talk in the group had been of action. After that there had been a difference. New justifications and a seriousness for the precautions. David had not told him of the programme, just prodded his memory, vague and fading, leading the old man to the days in the woods round Sevsk when he had stalked the partisans. Technique, procedure, manoeuvre, tactics - all those Timofey could teach him. 'Be careful. Be on guard at all times. It is when you relax that they take you. The knife in the back, at the throat, the single shot.' Always the same epitaph: that he had relaxed, that he was not careful.

  A silly thing to bury a man for, that he was casual, Timofey had said.

  The hut was not as large as the one the group had found, but big enough for a woodsman to spend a night when his search for dried and fallen branches that were needed for his fires caused him to stray far from his home. Table inside, and chairs, and a mattress on the floor, all had been thrown out from the dachas and disappeared overnight from the rubbish heap. Rabbit snares on the wall, neatly in line, the coils of steel wire suspended from nails, a source of food.

  When they were inside David said, 'Timofey, I do not have much time, and I have come to ask something of you. It is of the greatest importance you give me what I ask for. You have suffered greatly at their hands. If you give me what I need you will have the ch
ance to hit them in a way that has not been possible for you. I want guns, Timofey. Not a rifle - I have no need of that-but the machine-guns. Two of them, certainly, I must have.'

  In the half-light of the room David saw the eyes opposite him glint, closing with interest as the old man's attention was captured by the request. Desperate to know what I want them for, the old fox, thought David.

  'Timofey, it is not a criminal act, not robbing a bank, not for money. It is against them, the system - it will hurt them whether we succeed or fail. It will punish them for what they have done to you, and to us.'

  'What have they done to you?' His voice was hoarse with the strangeness of speaking.

  They have hunted us in the same way as you, only the

  weapons have changed. They are our enemies as they are yours.'

  'You have a house, clothes, work, money-how are they your enemies as they are mine?'

  'We do not have the same opportunities, we are second- class citizens. We are not permitted to be part of their world. They reject us because we are Jews.'

  'We saw the Jews go in the war. We were on the side of those who exterminated your parents and your relatives. Perhaps we even approved ... it is difficult... it was a long time a g o . . . we did nothing. How many millions of your people died then? And now you want guns, and you want to kill people to get a better place in the sun. Is that reason enough? We killed so many of each other at that time; what you now talk of seems a little matter. Perhaps because I am old, but what you seek for yourself seems nothing . .

  'I have not the time, old man.'

  Timofey rose from his stool. 'When you have guns then you will go to war. That is the time when you must learn the wisdom of patience and calm, or you will end as nothing. With the strength of the gun beside you your haste must be tempered, even your haste to be clear of an old man who asks nothing of you, nothing but a few words that can be lies or truth, immaterial.' He moved stiffly because the damp had long been in his knees and movement was hard for him, towards the hanging sacking that marked off the area where he slept. When he emerged again it was with an ageing knapsack coloured the steel grey of the wartime German forces. He placed it with deliberation on the table and unbuckled the straps that held down the top flap. There was pale green mildew on them and the buckles were dark with rust. He saw the way the young man looked at him. 'Have no worry. Inside it is dry. Weapons do not age, not if they have been cared for, if they are cleaned. These have been.' Then the bundle of water-proofed oilskin, a mustard brown, camouflage ground sheet, and that was laid on the table, and there was string to be undone, and finally the guns were revealed. So small, David thought. The tubular steel shoulder rests folded down the stock, magazines separate and detached, just barrel- length basically, insignificant little things such as children play with when they mimic the television pictures of the Red Army at its manoeuvres. But clean, and shining, and as worked on as any of his mother's mantelpiece ornaments.

  'The ammunition too I have cared for. It would not be wise to fire a test, but I tell you, my boy, that they will function. They are adequate to kill any who are keeping you as a second citizen.' He laughed, his hoarseness giving way to a raven's croak, his face cracking with the humour of his remark, spilling new lines across the log-brown face.

  'I need two, Timofey.'

  'So there are more than one of you. You have a follower, perhaps an army, and you will be the general?'

  "There are no generals. We are together.'

  'We all say that when we are young. But do not listen to yourself. When there is danger there must be a leader. You cannot fight by committee, even they found that. And are you the leader, David? Can you take your friends forward? When you have the guns it is changed, you know.

  You must discover that before you begin the course, whatever it may be, that you have chosen.

  Later is too late, there is no time.'

  David did not reply, and Timofey lapsed to taking the guns in his hands.

  For half an hour he showed David the workings of the weapons until the lesson was learned.

  He showed him the safety mechanism, showed him how to arm them, how to load the magazine, to attach it, explained the drift of automatic fire high and to the right if more than five shots were fired in a burst, showed him what to do if he suffered a jam.

  At the door, the load he had come for in a plastic bag, David said, 'What is the call that you taught me, told me to use when I approached?'

  'The kingfisher's.'

  'Why did you choose that one?'

  Timofey pointed past his hut into the tangle of trees. 'You cannot see it from here, but there is a stream, where no one comes, where I sit. There is the nest of a kingfisher there, and I hear her call, or that of her mate when he has need of her. It is rare for people to see that bird. Most of these swine that live here through the summer would never see one, let alone hear her. So I say that if I hear that call, and I hear it from the path that you use, then it will be you. Another bird, and I could be mistaken, or I might hear it too often. But the kingfisher is the rarity, a princess amongst them.'

  'I have never seen one.'

  'Because you are from the city. She is fast and swift, and she holds the initiative in her world.

  None can catch her, few even see her, she is devastating in her attack. She is a lesson to the guerrilla. She is what you must strive after.'

  'It is a good name, old man.'

  They were walking now, close together because of the narrowness of the track, and the old man was shorter than David, bowed and shrivelled.

  'Will you come again?' Timofey asked, his eyes looking up.

  'I will not come again. However it goes there will be no return.'

  There were no farewells, no hands shaken, no words of comfort or encouragement, just the blunt moment of parting as the old man turned back to his hut. David hurried down the track, his right hand holding the weighted package, his left shielding his face from the low, sharp hazel branches.

  Remember what David had said, again and again through Isaac's mind went the phrase as he stood in the centre of the huge marble-veneered floor of the Aeroflot main offices. A bustle of people coming and going around him, and queues at the ticket counters. Just the way they had wanted it. And when it comes to the booking choose a harassed girl, one under pressure with a short temper and a willingness to be done with the business. You didn't want a girl with time to waste and questions to ask. Incredible, really, in a society like ours how people had so much time to ask questions; fear, he thought, fear is what it comes to, fear of being held responsible if there was error. A whole society so consumed with curiosity about the legalities of their fellow citizens' lives.

  He had already taken the State airline's timetable and leafed through it till he came to the map that boasted the extent of the international as well as domestic routes. Take the North Sea as the outer limit, going due west. Have to be somewhere inside that orbit that they must be put down, and still be left witeh a failsafe quantity of fuel in the tanks. Must look at it analytically, that was the way he had been trained at school, and the way they were teaching him at the University.

  Take a problem and search out the solution. So where to? Where to buy a ticket for?

  Leningrad - no good. Equivalent distance to the centre of DDR, and he wasn't to know how much spare fuel they would carry. Would get them to Turkey, but that wasn't safe, not with a fascist military regime, same sort of people as the party here, hard to tell the difference; and they'd run the risk of being shipped back. Needed the 'liberal democracies', as David called them, where they followed the fortunes of Israel with concern, did not genuflect to the Arabs and their oil. North Europe the answer for the refuelling stop. There was a sense of frustration to his thinking that these decisions were being made now, plans that should have moulded days earlier, and would now be rushed and pressurized.

  Yalta - too short, same for all the Black Sea resorts. Plenty of flights, but not enough aviation fu
el.

  Tbilisi - nearer, but whoever went to Georgia? And they must not have to explain the reason for their journey. Miserable, tight bastards down there and everyone in Kiev knew that. Have to explain if he wanted seats to Tbilisi.

  He poised the map between his open hands again, running a finger further north. Tomsk and Novosibirsk.

  Novosibirsk - opportunities there. God knows why anyone goes there, but that was an intellectual base, Science City. Perhaps a chemistry student could be going and Rebecca with her botany, and David with his working chemistry. The indicator board carried the daily arrivals and departures, covering a whole wall, the flights of the week. Nothing to those two cities for Wednesday. No to Tomsk, no to Novosibirsk, blank, nothing. Disappointment and back to the map.

  Tashkent - a flight to Tashkent tomorrow. Flight on Wednesday. 1600 hours, the sort of time they wanted, could have finished their plans by then ... but if they had three hours to play with, if Moses gave them that long, and he'd sworn and cursed at Moses when he should have prayed for him, prayed for strength for him. More than two thousand miles to Tashkent, way beyond the distance they needed. Fuel for more than five hours, take them into Europe, into the West. But down into Tashkent, where the flight was rooted, what papers would you need for that? Didn't know. It had been his plan, his idea, the whole thing and the others had accepted it, and he didn't know the answers, and had no way of finding them, only at the counter, only at the ticket counter.

  Cannot apply logic to regulations, either know the answer or you are ignorant.

  He joined the queue to one of the central counters, heavy traffic, more than at the extremes of right and left. Funny how people sought the centre where the delays would be greater.

  Conformity. Five, ten minutes slipping by, and time for him to sum up the girl in the dowdy blue uniform behind the counter. Customers in front of him being satisfied, queue lengthening behind him. Soon there was only one more man in front - heavy suit of a Party worker. Perhaps he wasn't, but Isaac reckoned anybody who wore a heavy suit when it was hot was a Party worker, status in showing they had the clothes. Sweat was running down the man's neck on to his collar: so much for the gesture of superiority.