Find My Brother

by David Chilcott

  ***

  In the Camp office the CO was sitting in shirtsleeves, braces over his dirty shirt. In front of him lay two pieces of paper on the desk. With him were three of the guards. The CO was plucking up courage to lift the phone and dial.

  It had taken exactly one hour and eleven minutes to restore power. Then they realised that if they removed the oil tank filler cap, the engines continued to run. They had yet to find the potato up the air vent. Next they had carried out a parade of prisoners and a head count. They were two prisoners short. It had taken some time to find out which prisoners had vanished. All the prisoners had to be inspected and their numbers ticked off.

  The papers in front of the CO related to the missing prisoners, one listed as John, departed Yorkshire, England and then the date. Number given. There was no other data, but stapled to the form was a photograph taken here in this office. An unsmiling John McBride unaware he was being recorded by a secret camera. The other papers had a photograph of Ben Stockton, taken four months earlier.

  The Commanding Officer could no longer prevaricate. He lifted the phone, dialled the SVR headquarters, asked for Timur Kuschenka, in charge of the British desk. A duty officer spoke. The CO explained that he must speak only to Kuschenka, that it was urgent. The duty officer patched the call through to Kuschenka’s home. There was a low ringing sound, and then a woman answered.

  She left the phone, and was away a long time. The CO fingered the forms on his desk.

  “Kuschenka.”

  “The English prison here. Petrov speaking. I am sorry to wake you. We have had a break out. Two prisoners escaped.”

  “So, you have a search party out?”

  “No Sir, the electricity supply was sabotaged. It took over one hour to restore. Then we had to take a roll call to determine how many had escaped, and -- ”

  “No excuses!” barked Kuschenka. “You must send their descriptions, photographs would be better, by email to this number immediately.” He proceeded to read out the email address. “Mark it for the following.” He gave a list of three names. I will alert them that the message is arriving soon. Don’t delay.” He slammed down the phone.

  Kuschenka knew it was his own fault staffing the prison camp with second-rate ex-army drop-outs. But he was working on a tight budget and Putin was easily offended if one were not economical. Immediately, he picked up the phone again, spoke to the duty officer at SVR headquarters, was passed through to the Army HQ, and was passed through six people before he had the one he wanted: the man in charge of domestic security. He outlined the problem, asked that soldiers could carry out a search. Said where the men had escaped, gave a map reference, and a time of breakout. He said that he imagined that they might be making for St Petersburg, or even Moscow. The officer promised to have his men on the ground by six thirty, but he could only spare ten. Kuschenka promised him photographs of the men by email within half an hour.

  Putting the phone down, he went to get dressed. There was still a lot to be done, and by the time he got to the office it would be seven o’clock. There he would speak to his colleagues, get SVR operatives alerted, and the police notified. But it would be a longshot if they picked them up. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, he thought. This was not the time to inform the President of the unfortunate incident. Not until they had killed the escapees.

  McBride estimated they had covered thirty five miles when he started looking for a place to lay low. The sun was already over the horizon but a low mist obscured most of the low-lying land they were traversing. Higher ground rose out of the mist like islands on a grey sea. The restricted visibility nearly caused them to run into a large pond, even a lake; it was difficult to assess the size, as it stretched into the haze ahead, and to the left. On the right bushes and small trees overhung the water’s edge. He looked down. The water was clear. He could see some weed maybe a foot below the surface.

  “I think we could be alright to drink this stuff,” said McBride getting on to his knees, and scooping up handfuls of water. Ben joined him at the water’s edge. It certainly tasted like pure water.

  “Those trees over on the right look as if they might be okay for us to rest up amongst.” McBride pointed, and Ben squinted through the mist.

  “Should we wade through the water, to put the dogs off the scent?” Ben was unsure whether this was a sensible remark, even as he asked it, so he gave a chuckle. McBride took it seriously.

  “Might not be far enough to put any dogs off the scent, but let’s try it anyway.” He undid his trainers, took off his socks, finding that he still had his credit card, although he could feel the cracks in the plastic. He tucked it in the top pocket of his shirt. “Walk close to the edge; you don’t know how deep it might get. Be no fun swimming in greatcoats.”

  Gingerly they started to paddle through the water, which was a constant twelve or fifteen inches deep. When they came to the trees and bushes, they ducked under the overhanging branches and continued. They arrived at a point where the tree trunks advanced into the water, and interspersed with them were some aquatic bush. Just before this barrier, McBride bent and looked inland beneath the trees. Grass extended for some distance from the shore, and then more dense shrub.

  “I think this is where we lie up Ben.” He led the way stooping under the bushes. The glade he stepped into was open to the sky, with short grass beneath their feet. What kept the grass short was rabbits, which scattered as he emerged, followed by Ben.

  The first thing they did was change into their civvies, then stuffed their prison denims and greatcoats under the tree roots, pushing the clothing well into the tightly packed bushes. Dog tired they lay on the grass with their heads on their rucksacks acting as pillows. McBride was instantly asleep, tired by the long march, and awake for eighteen hours.

  Maybe minutes, maybe hours later, he was suddenly awake. He could hear a diesel vehicle being driven at high revs. There are no roads, why can I hear traffic? He opened his eyes, looked across the lake. Two four wheel off roaders were making their way at marching speed across the meadowland. In between were a spaced out line of soldiers. Spaced out about a quarter of a mile apart, both vehicles and eight men, he counted. So that made a sweep of about two miles wide. In the biggest country in the world. But they had actually got lucky. They were bound to search the copse they were in. Ben woke at that moment. McBride put his finger to his lips.

  “They don’t know we here, and I don’t think -- ” A sudden burst of fire, and the whine of bullets overhead.

  “Keep down, flat. Don’t panic.” McBride taking command. Ben looked at him, wild eyed. McBride expected troops breaking bushes, pushing their way through the undergrowth.

  Ten minutes later the line was hundreds of yards further on, nobody looking behind them.

  “Why didn’t they search the copse,” whispered Ben.

  “Lazy. They put a few rounds through the trees, and expected that if anyone was hidden, they would rush out with their hands in the air. They are a token force. The SVR will probably answer to Putin himself over a breakout of British prisoners. There could be a diplomatic incident over this, if we get back safely. Somebody in charge at SVR headquarters is covering their backs. Calling out the troops, doing everything by the book. But the army, probably short of troops, certainly short of money were doing the least they could. Supplying ten soldiers, not even a unit.”

  Ben nodded, but didn’t comment.

  “The SVR can’t imagine they could catch two escaped prisoners in such a large country with a relatively low population. They will be relying on the police force, and the local SVR men on the ground to be alert for foreigners. I bet they have our descriptions. They will expect us to be making for a border crossing. Which we are. Airports they’ll be covering certainly. Railway stations as well.”

  “What time is it?”

  “McBride looked at his wristwatch, “Eleven. We should get some more sleep. I don’t expect any further interruptions.”

  The next time they
woke it was dark. They waded back the way they had come, and then headed south of the copse, which was so small that they might not have hidden there if they had known. They took up their march westwards. The going was a lot easier now they were carrying less. For three hours they marched without stopping. They came to a mud track, and walked along it, rather warily. It led to a dacha, suddenly appearing against the skyline. McBride waved Ben to follow him, single file.

  No lights showed ahead, and McBride hoped that it was empty, perhaps closed up for the winter. They entered a well stocked vegetable garden. They came to a yard at the back. No vehicles parked there. They continued until they had done a complete circuit of the building. No vehicles anywhere. All the shutters were closed. McBride looked up to the chimneys. No smoke against the clear night sky. All the way round he had been keeping a lookout for signs of a burglar alarm. Nothing.

  “Could be in luck,” said McBride. He led the way to the back of the house again. Tried a door. Locked, but not bolted. He could feel the give against the deadlock. He looked at the shuttered window alongside the door. The shutter was held by a flat latch, hinged on the frame. He turned it; the shutter opened easily to his pull. No light came through the glass. He put his face against the glass, shaded his eyes with his hands. It was too dark to see anything.

  “Here we go,” He pulled his anorak sleeve down over his hand to protect it, and smartly struck the glass. His arm went through, and he reached in and undid the fastener on the frame.

  “Come on, Ben, I’ll give you a leg-up through, if you go first. Be careful not to fall over anything.”

  Ben went through the window, and McBride followed straight after him. It was completely silent apart from the sound of their breathing. Then he heard the drip of a tap, and realised they were in the kitchen. Their eyes became accustomed to the dark inside the room, and McBride made for a door across on the other wall. He felt round for a moment and then the room was flooded with light. Ben dashed to the window, and pulled at the shutter. McBride gazed at the room, then started opening cupboards, until he found what he wanted. Canned goods. The lettering on the labels was in Russian, but illustrations of the contents helped.

  With Ben’s help they stacked a few cans on the table top in the centre of the room. Baked beans, corned beef with opening keys attached, soup, peach slices, as far as Ben could ascertain. Meanwhile McBride was searching the drawers. He waved a tin opener under Ben’s nose.

  “That’s it, we are going now, stuff some of the cans in your rucksack, and some in mine. I don’t think the house is wired up to a police station, but why risk it?”

  Two minutes later, they were out of the house, had reclosed the shutter, and were back on the lane.