by James Rouch
“Maybe they could, but I've a feeling our radio traffic will be monitored for a while, to make sure we're being good boys and not telling tales out of school.” Revell impatiently watched the men making a clumsy chore of re-fixing the shoring.
One of Vokes's pioneers jumped down to join them, and by pushing one man, and threatening another with a huge fist, and a torrent of incomprehensible Dutch, got the task done in half the time.
“This way no one finds out we've been making inquiries, and maybe takes away our radio and transport.”
“Major, major sir.”
The call came from an excavation on the far side of the site.
Grigori, with an air of self-appointed authority, was supervising the removal of a body from beneath splintered logs that had formed a bunker's roof. They were smoked-stained on what had been the underside and soot coated much of the corpse.
A loop of razor wire girdling the woman's torso had to be cut before the remains could be hauled clear. The fractured end of a thigh bone projected from flesh that was fast decomposing.
“You won't mind, Major, if I point out that I'm trained to work on patients who aren't turning green at the edges and have maggots coming out of their nose.” Distastefully, Sampson pushed the body over to examine the back, then let it roll face up again.
“No external signs I can see. Could have been anything, poison of some sort, heart attack ...”
“What about the leg?” Revell could smell the woman, a heavy, cloying, sweet stench that he knew all too well.
Sampson hardly glanced at the ugly injury. “No bleeding, must have happened after death, when the roof came in on top of her.” He pointed to discoloured and crinkled patches of flesh. “Those are flash burns, from when they blew in the entrance, I should say.” Pausing, he looked again at the exposed bone and then the pattern of the burns. “Of course I'm no Quincy, but I'd say when it happened she was standing or more likely hanging up, like a wall ornament.”
“Keep them digging.” Placing a scrap of torn cloth over the face, Revell addressed the instruction to Old William, but it was Grigori who chimed in with a response.
“I will get them on it right away, Major, right ...” “You'll get your fat ass down there with the others.” Revell rounded on the elderly Dutchman in charge of the excavation. “Keep them working, especially him.”
Old William looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the ground. Slowly and very methodically he was filling a meerschaum pipe. His Russian workers would frequently snatch a greedy and envious glance at him, as the best part of half an ounce was gradually thumbed into the capacious bowl.
“Ya.” He nodded in agreement and went on with his private labours. “It would speed things up if we took more men off the road.” Hyde knew that was already in his officer's mind. “If the general was right about the truce, and we are going to be here for a while, it can't do any harm.” He saw Revell was undecided. “I and the men want to know who did it, as well.”
“Take another twenty. Concentrate most of them here, and have her buried and the grave marked.”
“Not much to put on the cross.” Hyde was grateful for once that he had no sense of smell.
“Just the cross will do. It'll be more than she had before.” Grigori sorted through the pieces of paper on the map table. Some were no more than torn scraps, others were creased and dirty larger fragments, edges darkened and made brittle by flame that had licked them.
“This is not much with which to work, Major.” “Those fragments are all we've got so far, maybe all we'll get. Make as much sense out of them as you can.”
The Russian bent to scrutinize the finds by the harsh glare of a single unshaded bulb.
Into the confined space of the lean-to tent, slung against the side of the Hummer, had crowded Revell and Vokes, along with Sergeant Hyde, as well as the Russian deserter.
“Ah, these are all a part of a single document.” With purpose now, no longer moving the pieces at aimless random, Grigori began to assemble the parts of a torn message pad leaf.
“Yes, it is an order to withdraw. See, here is the time of transmission and receipt, the time withdrawal is to commence ...” Peering over the top of wire-rimmed bifocals, Grigori scanned the other fragments. “Some of it is missing.”
“Well tell us what we've got. Who is it addressed to, for a start.” Revell was impatient with the man's fussing.
“Of course, Major. It is addressed to the commander of a unit...” Snatching off his glasses, folding them with a snap, Grigori tried to push his way out.
Revell grabbed him. “You're not diving out now. What does it say? What unit?” Failing in a second attempt to escape from the canvas shelter, Grigori allowed himself to be pushed back to the table. It was as if he had shrunk within himself. The overlay of brash self-confidence had been torn away.
“You don't want to know, Major. Let us just get on with the task we have. I will work especially hard...”
That the man was scared was all too obvious. He wasn't acting. It was hard for Revell to imagine what could have such an effect on such a tough character.
“Tell us who the message was for.”
“It was... It was for a Colonel Tarkovski.” Grigori crossed himself as he uttered the name.
“This is no time to be reverting to religion.” In a dim recess of his mind Revell vaguely recalled the name, but couldn't quite place it. “So what unit is it?”
Grigori lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, so that the three of them had to bend close to catch his words.
“It is addressed to Colonel Tarkovski, commanding officer of Disciplinary Battalion 717. They have a private name for themselves, Beria's Sons.”
“Means nothing to me.” Vokes had noted the awe, amounting almost to fear in their Russian's voice, and the looks Hyde and Revell had exchanged. “What can be so special about them? Surely a punishment battalion would be employed by the Soviets simply as cannon fodder.”
“Not this one.” Revell handed Grigori a dusty roll of adhesive tape. “Piece it together as best you can with that.”
“Who is Beria?” Vokes persisted.
Taking a bottle from a locker, Revell poured three glasses, and then as an afterthought a glass for the Russian. “He was Stalin's head of secret police. Almost grabbed power when his boss died. It's suspected he helped Stalin on his way. Didn't do himself any good though. He was shot in one of the cells of the Lubyanka eventually.”
“That still does not explain what is special about this battalion.”
Hyde downed the gin in one go, not tasting it until it touched the back of his throat, and then only as a mildly burning sensation. “For a start, Lieutenant, it's the KGB's own punishment unit. Run by them, for then. All of them, even officers, are men who have just avoided being shot or hung, or were reprieved to make up numbers when the battalion fell below strength. Between them they committed every crime and every atrocity you can imagine, and if you're lucky, a lot that you can't.”
“I had imagined the KGB was above the law.” Vokes held out his glass for an offered refill.
“They are.” Grigori had finished his drink and now rolled the glass between his palms. “But they have a system of internal discipline to take care of those who do not fit. They are men who even among the company of executioners and perverts stand out. I think in many cases they are hardly human.”
“Do you think our high-powered visitors knew of this?” “Whether they did or not, Lieutenant,” Revell hesitated, then sent Grigori out, with a warning to keep quiet. “Whether they did or not, I don't think it would have made a blind bit of difference. All that matters to them is the truce. That's why they brought no press, no PR men with them. As far as they're concerned the incident is closed. Two thousand civvies, so what, sometimes ten times that number have died in a day, caught up in a battle.”
“Nothing we can do about it?” Picking up a sheet of graph paper with the fragments stuck to it, Hyde reread the transcription the
ir translator had scrawled in the margin. Turning to a plastic overlaid wall map, he traced the KGB unit's known withdrawal route.
“We lack the resources, even if we knew where they were.” Revell switched on a second lamp for a better view of the map. “OK, so we know the way they went, but not where they stopped. They could be just the other side of the demilitarized strip or back in Moscow by now.”
“Would it be so difficult to find out?” Revell considered Vokes's question. “At this time, yes. With no fighting going on and no fresh prisoners coming in, tactical intelligence gathering will have come almost to a stop. As far as I'm aware, even reconnaissance flights are forbidden, manned or unmanned. I presume the satellites will still be gathering more information than anyone can use, but among the mass of Warpac troops a comparatively small unit like the 717th will be undetectable.”
“What about electronic intelligence gathering?” Hyde persisted. “They can often pinpoint who is where. HQ should have access to the data; haven't we got any contacts?”
With the tip of his forefinger Revell obliterated the fibre-pen marked track that Hyde had added to the map. “I know what you're thinking, but we'll have to forget it. For the duration we're road menders, nothing more. Tarkovski and 717th are probably a long way from here. They're nothing to do with us now.”
FIFTEEN
The old farmhouse resounded with the sounds and echoes of hammering. Tarkovski ignored the noise. He had swept plates and cutlery and the dust of a long abandoned meal from the top of a plain pine kitchen table. Now it was spread with a huge map of the area. On top of that lay a clutch of aerial photographs.
Several of his officers watched as the colonel impatiently sifted through them. They neither moved or made any comment. Even a mighty crash from the room above, as a heavy beam of timber was dropped, elicited no response from them. They did not even make any effort to brush away the cloud of dust-laden cobwebs that settled on them.
The light in the room was gradually diminishing as a sandbag wall rose higher outside the window. Tarkovski ignored that also, continuing to shuffle through the large glossy prints. Finally he selected one for examination through a large magnifying glass.
“Whose responsibility was it to see the disposal of the bodies?”
“Ensign Fastenko, Comrade Colonel.”
Tarkovski didn't look up. He knew who had spoken, recognized the distinctive lisp. He should know, it was he who had knocked out his second-in-command's front teeth at their first meeting. The major had been under the impression he'd drawn an easy assignment. A pick-handle across his face had swiftly disabused him of that notion.
“You mean Private Fastenko I think.” Tarkovski let the words sink in. “Private Fastenko who is now on permanent latrine duty.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
“You were going to add something?” Still Tarkovski didn't look up. “What of Captain... what of Private Chulpenyev. That has been his post.”
“Give him something more interesting to do. Find him some mines to clear.” For the first time Tarkovski lifted his gaze from the photograph. “Unless any of you have an urge to join him, I suggest you turn your minds to this.” He held the photograph out toward them and slowly panned it before the faces of the group.
“Look carefully. It shows that a shitty little NATO battalion has been rooting around in what was until recently our property. We would not have known except that by luck I was passed these.” He smacked the pile of prints, sending several onto the floor.
The sandbag barricade had risen higher. Occasionally the grimy faces and arms of the civilians building it could be seen.
Tarkovski ignored them, as he continued to ignore the construction work overhead. “I take it very personally when damned Yanks or British shits start rummaging through my garbage pits. I would like them deterred from doing it any more.”
All of the officers knew that by this time of day the colonel would be well into his second bottle of vodka. On a sideboard stood not only that half empty bottle, but also an open Georgian brandy. It was when Tarkovski mixed his drinks that he was at his most dangerous. His rigid stance, slow and deliberate speech and unfocused stare confirmed how far gone he was. They waited for a definite cue, before daring to offer any suggestions.
“I want it done tonight. And I don't want anything traceable back to us to be left behind.”
“The second platoon of the first company is at full strength, Colonel. They have done such raids before. Their commander would be perfect for such a task.”
With difficulty the major suppressed a smile of deep satisfaction. It would be an ideal opportunity for him to dispose of the senior lieutenant in question. The man was becoming greedy, insisting on an equal share of the huge profits to be made from their hoard of Afghan hashish.
Of course he could not be certain that the lieutenant would be killed in the night action. He had already noted in him a considerable talent for self-preservation. No, one could not leave such things to chance. As insurance, to make absolutely sure, he would brief Junior Sergeant Ivanov to take care of him in the inevitable confusion of withdrawal.
The sergeant was ambitious, and hoping for promotion. And he would enjoy such work. He was in the battalion in the first place for beating a Polish officer almost to death. Not that, for a Russian, that was much of a crime, but the man had been a general, and a political officer at that... that had just tipped the balance against him, where otherwise a KGB man could have felt himself safe from military justice. “They will require transport, Colonel.”
“The hell they will. Have they got no feet?” “It was just that the Comrade Colonel said he wanted the action to pass without detection of its source. Surely if the men can be extricated quickly and cleanly afterward ...?” The major left the sentence hanging.
“And where do you think the fuel is coming from? Three of the trucks are dry, and I've only half a tank in the field car.”
That was a lie, about the field car at least. The major knew the trucks were out of gas as they'd been siphoned to replenish the colonel's personal transport. “I believe I can find sufficient fuel, Colonel.” Tarkovski knew his second-in-command meant he knew where he could steal some, from another unit. Or perhaps he'd trade some of his stockpile of hash if he had to, if there was no other way to obtain it.
“Very well, take the damned trucks. Just make sure you bring them all back. And one last thing.” Tarkovski leaned against the table to steady himself, his eyes constantly wandering to the brandy. “I want the maximum number of casualties inflicted on those shitty road diggers. I want the crap scared out of them, so they don't go sticking their dirty NATO noses into what isn't their business, anymore. Now beat it, the lot of you.”
As the last of his officers left, Tarkovski stumbled to the sideboard and sloshed a large measure of brandy into a plastic cup. Some of the spirit oozed through a fine split in its side as he grabbed it up and tossed it back.
“Where the hell is my orderly?” He bellowed at the wall. Into the gloom of the darkening room came a stoop-shouldered private, clutching a grease-stained message pad.
“Here, Comrade Colonel.”
Staring at the faded floral print of the wallpaper inches from his nose, Tarkovski belched. His mind was not so clouded by drink that he could not recall an important point from the recent exchange.
“Make out a charge against the major.”
The clerk waited for several minutes, then timidly prompted.
“What section shall I put it under, Comrade Colonel?”
Tarkovski considered the question. He thought of the major's hoard of hashish. It was as well to be thorough. “Make it section forty two, subsection three. Failure to disclose holdings of vital war supplies. Namely fuel.”
“Does the Comrade Colonel wish to give the verdict now?” He knew he hardly need ask, but the clerk poised his pen, not writing the inevitable until the CO. spoke.
“Guilty of course, you shithead.”
&nb
sp; “And the sentence, Comrade Colonel?”
For a moment Tarkovski considered. Not the sentence. That would be death as a matter of course. “By hanging I think. We might as well save the few rounds a firing squad would use, and besides,” he poured himself another glass, “I like to see them mess their pants as I kick the chair away.”
“Is there anything else, Comrade Colonel?” The orderly was backing away, as if in fear that on a sudden whim of the officer he might find himself keeping the major company, creating double the foul entertainment.
“No. Wait, yes there is, now I come to think of it.” Only a small gap was left for daylight to enter the room, between the damp smelling sandbags. It made a searchlight-like beam across the dusty interior.
“How many refugee camps are there in this area? What's the intelligence estimate of the number of displaced persons?”
“Three settlements within six miles, Comrade Colonel. I think the figure is three hundred.”
“Think? You think? I want to bloody well know!” Tarkovski waved the cringing orderly's excuses aside. “Never mind, stop wetting yourself.”
Leaning back against the wall, Tarkovski felt the room beginning to rotate about him. It was a feeling he loved and he savoured the first moments of disorientation.
“The few lazy shits we've rounded up so far are worse than useless. I want this place bomb-proof this week, not next year. Have more rounded up. A couple of hundred adults should do it.”
The orderly made to leave, hesitating in the doorway when he thought he caught a fragment of mumbled instruction. “Did the colonel want something more?”
“Are you deaf? I said date that arrest for tomorrow. I’ll let the major enjoy tonight. If all goes well, hell think he's sitting pretty for a while. I'd like the turnaround in his fortunes to be all the more upsetting.”
“Is that all, Comrade Colonel?”
“Yes, wait, no.” Tarkovski braced his legs, to stop himself from sliding down. “It's Tuesday today. Have all those filthy refugees collected. Every last one. I'm in the mood for a bit of fun. Have them all here on Saturday. We'll have another of our parties.”