WITH a heavy heart, Tallis replotted his route and resumed his journey. He decided to bypass Shatoi altogether. The way for now had flattened out a little. Footholds were easier to see. The sky was the colour of a large open wound and the sun was setting. With it, the temperature dropped fast. He listened hard for signs of a pursuit. After another few kilometres of tracking, and picking his way through stony ground, eyes skinned for booby-traps, he decided to pitch up for the night in the relative safety of some woods on the leeside of a hill. He was tempted to light a fire but didn’t want to risk exposure and alert others. Instead, he made a shallow depression in the ground and, dragging some broken boughs over it, settled himself into the makeshift burrow with his sleeping bag. After a hasty meal of dried rations, he fell asleep, exhausted.
The next morning he awoke to sunshine filtering through the leaves of his shelter, casting a fine net of light over his makeshift bed. He rose, took a leak, and listened for the sound of human activity. Other than his own, there were none. Next, he took a compass reading then, after eating once more, he started off again, his destination Borzoi.
After a time the sun rose high in the sky, the temperature, too, starting to soar. He found himself in a belt of green pasture, an alpine hinterland. Two shepherds herding a flock of sheep trundled past and nodded in his direction. He nodded back, a snatch of normality in the prevailing madness. On he went, ears alert, eyes scanning the horizon. Suddenly the track on which he walked widened out and he was brought up short by the sight of scorched earth and dead vehicles, including a burnt-out tank on which someone had painted ‘Russians Are Pigs’. He strode on, not stopping, to where the land briefly dipped into a half-farmed valley then rose, stark and sheer.
Out in the open again. The further he travelled, the higher the climb, birds of prey and mountain goats the only signs of life. At last he reached a peak and the landscape changed again. He was on the edge of a wooded area. He held back, took out his map. The band of trees signified the most direct route to Borzoi, but they also offered the possibility of mines. The road, easier terrain, meant people and vehicles, checkpoints and soldiers. Breaking his own rules, he opted for the forest.
It was time-consuming travel. Most mines were found simply by observation. Knife in hand, Tallis scanned the ground for protrusions and surface fuses, for earth mounds and craters, for signs left by others: crossed sticks; cairns of rock and rubble, bottles and cans placed on the top of stakes; lines of painted rocks. He had no choice but to adopt a slow, leisurely gait, the mantra of look, feel, prod repeated on a loop in his head. Then he saw it, gleaming white in the sunshine, a metre away, gaping up at him. He stopped in his tracks, a metallic shiver travelling up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect as he processed the information, and stared at a human skull. Chechen or Russian, he thought, and what the hell did it matter? Somewhere a mother had lost a child.
He scanned the forest ahead: nothing untoward. About to walk on, he heard a crack behind him. No falling branch, no animal scurrying through, it was a sound he recognised only too well—the sound of a rifle cocking. Very slowly, he turned round, arms up. A thinlimbed boy emerged from behind a tree. Eyes glittering with malice, he resembled a wicked wood sprite from a fantasy tale. His skin was the colour of a pecan nut. He had a long face, the features off centre and sharp. He wore filthy combat trousers and a torn jacket. His boots, army issue, rubber-soled with the laces missing, looked too big for his thin legs. He carried an astonishing array of bullets across his chest and he was holding a Tikka-M65, a sporting and hunting rifle made in Finland. Designed for precision shooting, the target more usually big game, Tallis didn’t feel inclined to call the boy’s bluff. He was put in mind of child soldiers. They could be as ruthless as they were unpredictable. At any second he could be cut down. The only way to prevent certain death was either to attempt to kill him or appeal to the child’s venal nature.
‘I’m worth more to you alive than dead,’ he said in Chechen.
The boy smiled. That means nothing, his expression inferred.
‘I have money,’ Tallis said.
‘And weapons.’
Tallis felt surprise. The boy spoke with a young man’s voice, yet he only looked about twelve. He also spoke Chechen with a Russian accent. He pointed at Tallis to remove his holster and throw over his backpack. Tallis did both. Yes, he could have pulled out the Glock and shot him, but he had an unspoken rule about youngsters. He didn’t think he could live with himself even if it meant saving his own life. Now what? he thought. Would this sprite-child kill him there and then?
The boy dropped to the ground, sat cross-legged, and rummaged through Tallis’s belongings like he was going through a Christmas stocking, each new find an added source of delight.
‘I’m a Westerner,’ Tallis said, ‘English,’ he added, this time speaking in Russian.
The boy looked up and beamed. ‘This is good,’ he said, reverting to Russian. ‘I know someone who will pay a lot of money for you.’
Tallis led. Sprite followed. ‘No tricks,’ the boy warned, his untamed eyes glanced ominously at his loaded weapon just so Tallis knew he wasn’t fucking about. Tallis swallowed, walked on, feeling like the human equivalent of a mine detector. Having already spotted several tripwires on either side of the track, he half expected to be blown to kingdom come at any moment. Either that or it would be a bullet in the back. In this strange land the danger played to its own twisted beat.
From the way the light was falling, Tallis estimated it was approaching three o’clock. With storm clouds gathering, it would soon be dark. Tallis tried to engage the lad in conversation by asking his name. When he didn’t answer, Tallis briefly turned back.
‘I have no name,’ the boy said darkly. ‘Now, walk,’ he added, raising his weapon.
An hour further on, they were clear of the forest and on land that peaked sharply. Tallis expected to track along what appeared to him the nearest and less demanding route. Sprite had other ideas. They were moving up, vertical, high into the mountains where the air was thin and the going tough.
It began to rain, sheeting down like a fusillade. Every so often, Sprite would order him to stop, not to rest, but so that he could listen and smell the air. It seemed the boy had highly developed senses. Once he called out a warning as a piece of cliff edge plunged past, crashing down the mountainside, missing Tallis by centimetres, and once he picked out a hidden stream from which they drank the water. Tallis had tasted nothing like it. It was clear and bright and thirst-quenching.
Darkness fell like a curtain. Tallis became seriously worried. He couldn’t see a damn thing and the path ahead was savage. Suddenly the night sky lit up with tips of red and yellow tracer. There were reports of small-arms fire. He wondered if Darke was there in the thick of the action.
‘Rebels,’ Sprite said matter-of-factly. ‘They are trying to draw the Russians’ fire.’
Tallis saw the logic. Whoever held the higher ground had the advantage. It was probably the rebels’ best card.
On they climbed until Tallis stumbled, Sprite overtaking him, the boy’s sense of direction acute and unerring. It was as if he had another sense: night vision. After that, Sprite set the pace: fast and ferocious. Tallis had no intention of turning tail and making a dash for it. Either he’d fall in the dark or be shot, neither prospect appealing.
Finally, they arrived at Sprite’s destination: a lonely ledge underneath an overhanging cliff. It wasn’t a bad place for a shelter, Tallis thought, feeling his way around, conscious that Sprite was scampering about his den like a stray dog. Flicking on the torch he’d stolen from Tallis’s backpack, Sprite shone it in a wide hole in the rock, plunging one hand deep inside and pulling out a filthy sleeping bag which he threw to Tallis. The boy obviously intended to enjoy the spoils of war by commandeering the belongings of his victim. Tallis wasn’t that bothered. After two nights out in the open, he smelt like a hyena. Might as well live like one.
Wriggling inside, he lay down on the rock. Sprite did the same. Then the questions started.
‘Your papers say that you are Russian yet you say you are English.’
‘I am English.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
Tallis thought. Whatever he said could prove disastrous. ‘I’ve come to join the fight.’
Sprite let out a squeal of laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You fight the Chechen when you cannot even fight a child?’
Tallis froze. Words, which seemed a lifetime away, reverberated through his head. In an instant he was back in Birmingham, in Viva Constantine’s cosy sitting room, Lena standing there with an arrogant look in her eye. She’d accused him of running away from a woman. And now, with Ruslan dead, what else would she accuse him of? An image of Katya, blonde and beautiful, floated before his eyes. He blinked her away. ‘I haven’t come to fight the Chechen. I’ve come to fight the Russians.’
Sprite sat up a bit at that. Tallis could hear him rustling in the darkness.
‘Why?’
‘Because I think the Chechens have had a raw deal. I think this time they’re in serious trouble.’
‘My grandmother on my mother’s side was Croatian.’
‘Ah,’ Sprite said knowingly, ‘you hate the Serbs so you hate the Russians, too.’
‘And you?’
‘I have no loyalties to anyone other than myself.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Only if you’re stupid.’
‘So what are you exactly?’ Tallis said, pushing it. ‘You speak Chechen but with a Russian accent.’
‘I am unfortunate,’ Sprite said with no hint of self-pity whatsoever. ‘I am an ethnic Russian born in Chechnya. I belong to no one.’
Tallis woke the next morning with a boot in his rear. ‘Get up!’ Sprite shrieked.
The weather was dire. Thick mist shrouded the mountains. It was bone-crunchingly cold. And it was still raining. Tallis was ordered to climb. Thin air punched him in the chest. On he climbed until joyously they were cresting the peak and heading back down. Tallis adopted a sideways motion, using his inside hand to feel his way, feeling for mines. According to Sprite, the Chechens were fond of setting tripwires.
Bit by bit, the fog started to clear. Tallis could smell water again. The ground flattened out into a wooded valley, sunless, trees dripping with moisture, a river running through. Up ahead, round the next spur, barely visible, was a rough wooden bridge.
Below, deep and wide, the river boiled and hissed barbarously, like a wounded sea-snake from Greek mythology.
The other side was a plain with a narrow road running through it, surrounded by more mountains, their tops mislaid in the mist.
‘This way,’ Sprite said, striding on. He was growing more animated, more talkative, his speech, half tour guide, half professor, a jabber. Tallis couldn’t reconcile the boy inside the man. Sometimes he seemed a kid, other times a guy in his twenties. Maybe his was a genuine case of arrested development. Or maybe he was simply a sad casualty of war.
On they walked. ‘See,’ Sprite said with glee, taking off, Tallis bounding after him, watching in horror and amazement as Sprite leapt onto the burnt-out shell of a tank, a prominent white transverse cross marked on the remains of its turret.
‘Watch out!’ Tallis cried. ‘It might be booby-trapped.’ He could almost feel the boom, smell the terrible stench of burning flesh and entrails, but nothing happened. Nothing at all.
‘It’s fine,’ Sprite said. ‘Look.’ He danced up and down then dropped into a squat, kicking his legs out like a mad Cossack.
‘How the hell did that get there?’
But Sprite had taken off again, too busy running up and down the thing. Suddenly, he stopped dead.
‘What?’ Tallis said, clambering on top, his boots crunching on the blackened and twisted metal. He drew alongside Sprite and followed Sprite’s gaze. Ahead stood a lone figure, frozen, as still as statuary. Sprite took out Tallis’s binoculars and lifted them to his eyes. In that brief, unguarded moment Tallis knew he could take the boy. One swift, accurate blow to the back of the neck and it would all be over.
‘It’s Bislan,’ Sprite said, handing them to Tallis. ‘He has strayed into the minefield.’
Tallis looked for himself. The boy, thirteen or so judging from his physique, was standing, his back towards them, roughly forty metres away in a grassy area off the road. God knew why. The tank, with its white cross, had served as a warning, Tallis realised. For some reason the kid had disregarded it. Tallis didn’t know the terrain but it looked from the rigid way the lad was standing that he’d either realised his mistake too late or had actually stepped on a mine that had failed to detonate. Tilt mines, the type that explode once the pressure was released, were rare in that area. Could be remote-controlled, Tallis thought, scanning the landscape.
Then again, why hadn’t the operator simply got on with the job? The slimmest chance of all was that Bislan had, indeed, stepped on a mine that had failed to engage. Sometimes, in a PMN, a type of anti-personnel mine, if the fuse was too well protected by the soil, this was exactly what happened. But that didn’t mean to say that there weren’t others, undetected, waiting, and ready to strike. Whatever the real state of affairs, Bislan was doing what any sane individual should do: freeze and wait for back-up.
Sprite jumped down from the tank, twisted his rifle round, and lifted it.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Tallis said.
‘It will be better this way,’ Sprite said, chambering a round and looking down the sight.
Tallis leapt and landed square in front of Sprite.
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no? You want to see him torn limb from limb?’
‘I can rescue him.’
Sprite’s expression darkened. ‘You are no use to me dead. I need you alive.’ He sounded petulant.
‘I’m not going to die. Christ, I’ve got this far,’ Tallis argued. ‘Who is this Bislan anyway?’
‘He is Akhmet’s son.’
‘Akhmet?’ Elimkhanova? Tallis wondered, hoping against hope that it was the warlord whose gang Darke had been sent to infiltrate.
‘The man who will pay good money for you.’
‘Won’t he pay more money for the life of his child?’
Sprite’s features sharpened. ‘Only if you succeed.’
‘And I will.’
Sprite thought about it, ran a hand over his hairless chin. He’s weakening, Tallis thought. ‘Think how you will look in Akhmet’s eyes.’
Sprite stood, stared, reflective. He looked like a gambler weighing up the odds. Tallis said nothing, fearing that one wrong word would force Sprite to abandon Bislan. Finally, Sprite nodded, giving in.
‘Good. Now, let me have my knife back.’
Sprite grinned and shook his head. ‘You will try to kill me.’
I could have tried to kill you on two separate occasions, Tallis thought, grim. ‘I won’t. You have my word.’
‘Your word?’ Sprite mocked.
‘Fuck’s sake, I can’t save him without it. You want your friend to die?’
Sprite seemed to consider this. ‘Alright,’ he said, reluctantly swinging the rucksack off his back, taking out the knife and handing it to Tallis.
‘And tape,’ Tallis said. ‘There’s a roll of white tape in the bag,’ he added in answer to Sprite’s puzzled expression. Again, Sprite obliged.
‘I will hold onto this,’ Sprite said, catching the rifle round the stock and waving it in the air.
‘Do what you like,’ Tallis growled, the prospect of what he was about to do making him break out in a cold sweat.
Together they moved forward across the road. ‘Talk to him,’ Tallis said. ‘Tell him I’m coming to help. Tell him to stay absolutely still.’
Sprite did. The only visible sign of movement was a slight tension in Bislan’s jaw. That was good, Tallis thought. The last thing he needed was a reactor or panicker. That way they’d both get fragged. He dropped to his knees on the road, stuck the knife between his teeth, roll of tape in his pocket, and, leaning over onto the dirt, ran his fingers over the earth in front of him, centimetre by centimetre, inching forward. Look, feel, prod, he repeated, fingers feeling for fuse mechanisms and any buried mines. It took ten minutes to establish that the ground was safe enough to take the width and length of his body. As soon as he’d done that, he took out the tape and marked his passage.
‘You will be here all day,’ Sprite carped from the sideline.
Tallis ignored him, repeating the process. Look, feel, prod. Look, feel, prod. He had moved a couple of metres, no problem, when, to the right, he noticed a tripwire. Didn’t say a word, just marked the spot and changed the angle of direction, clearing the ground anew. Slowly did it. Look, feel, prod. Look…
‘Shit,’ Tallis let out, his fingers hitting metal.
‘What?’ Sprite called.
Tallis gently eased the soil away with the knife, revealing a disc shape in the ground. ‘Partially buried mine,’ Tallis called over his shoulder.
‘Fuck it,’ Sprite cursed.
‘Shut up,’ Tallis snarled, flaring with anger.
The device was an anti-personnel blast mine. Although the size of the charge varied, it was most intended to maim rather than kill. A typical blast would destroy a foot or leg and cause multiple lacerations from casing fragments and surrounding debris. It was a weapon often used to slow down enemy troops. Not nice, Tallis thought, another wave of sweat breaking out across his brow, praying as he marked the spot so that he would avoid it on the journey back. If he made the journey back.
‘I’m looping round,’ he shouted, changing direction, fingers moving over the soil as if he were reading Braille. Ten minutes later the area to the left of the mine was cleared. Again, Tallis marked his trail with tape, feeling like a latter-day Hansel and Gretel. Off course a bit, he’d moved to within twenty metres of the lad. Doing fine, he told himself, calm down, keep focused, look, feel, prod.
About to feel the way again, his temple pulsing in concentration, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and froze. Jesus, he thought, minutely turning, seeing not one figure but several, all dressed in black fatigues, bandannas on their heads, AK47s slung over their shoulders, their grizzled features giving them the appearance of pirates. Were they responsible for the mines? Tallis thought feverishly. Were they about to set the bastards off?
A volley of shouts broke out, anxious, fearful and angry. Sprite shouted back, told the men what was happening. Some called Bislan’s name. ‘Keep quiet,’ Tallis barked in Chechen. A chill silence settled on the land. Taking a deep breath, Tallis continued his lonely odyssey, inching forward again, nearer and nearer.
Fuck, another tripwire right across his path. He looked up, caught the boy’s haunted gaze. He’d seen it too. In a strange way the tripwire had saved his life. Had he stumbled on, he’d have set it off and bled out by now. ‘It’s alright, Bislan,’ Tallis told the boy. ‘I’m going to mark it then I’ll double round behind you. You’re doing fine. Just keep still for me, there’s a good lad, and I’ll have you out of here in no time.’
Slowly, slowly, mark, avoid, and move on, Tallis told himself, edging his way round. The pulse in his temple was hammering now, and sweat was pouring off him in spite of a chill wind. He was vaguely aware of a crowd gathering on the nearest hillside, but his focus was aimed on the ground, the dirt, the sick jokes it might reveal. Seconds and minutes thudded by. He was utterly in the zone. Every sinew in his body strained. Look, feel, prod…
Eventually, and by a tortuous route, he reached the child, his eyes continuing to scan the ground. There were no obvious fuses, no metal plates. ‘Are you actually standing on anything?’
The boy shook his head. Tallis stretched out a hand, touching the backs of the boy’s legs, felt the rigidity in the muscles in the calves. A great cheer went up from the hillside.
‘I’m going to make sure the ground around you is safe, Bislan,’ Tallis said. ‘Stay put for a little while.’
‘Okay.’ It was the first word he’d spoken.
Fingers spreading over the earth, Tallis cleared an area measuring roughly half a metre around. ‘Now turn very slowly on the spot so you’re facing me.’
The boy did as he was told. In spite of his dark colouring, he was ashen-faced. Even his jet-black hair looked grey in the half-light. ‘That’s good. Now, move onto your hands and knees.’
Bislan did as he was told.
‘You alright?’ Tallis smiled, eyeball to eyeball. Critically, he needed to make eye contact, to make sure the boy fully understood what was being asked of him. It was imperative he gain the boy’s trust if they were to crawl out of there alive. Bislan nodded silently. ‘Good. I’m going to stand, turn around and get back down. As soon as I start crawling forward, you follow in my tracks exactly. You don’t stray or move outside the line, got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Here we go.’
Tallis got to his feet slowly, muscles straining, each movement tiny. Back down on his knees and facing the right way round again, Tallis moved off, edging his way, inching along the marked-out trail. A crowd of fighters assembled close to Sprite, watching the final extraction, two women among them. One man, massively framed, head and shoulders above the rest, stood intent, his dark eyes ablaze.
Tortoise-like, they moved in tandem, metre by painful metre, until, finally, Tallis emerged triumphant, crawling onto the hard surface, clearing it and collapsing onto the ground, Bislan safe behind him. Gunfire exploded into the air. An almighty cheer and cries of ‘Allah Akhbar’ ricocheted off the mountains. Tallis looked up, caught Sprite’s eye and grinned. Sprite grinned back until he realised the trick he’d been played. With the boy safe, there was no way Akhmet was going to buy Tallis, or make him a hostage to fortune. By his small act of courage, Tallis had made himself priceless.
In seconds, Bislan, dazed and speechless, was held aloft like the prodigal son, several Chechens breaking into spontaneous dance around him. Tallis, meanwhile, was pulled to his feet by one of the female fighters. He noticed that she wore fingerless gloves, the type that snipers used. As his gaze travelled up, she smiled. Her hair was the colour of an old teddy bear. She had weathered skin and her blue eyes were framed in a heart-shaped face. ‘My name is Irina,’ she said, her Chechen accented. Russian, Tallis noticed, wondering if he’d ever get the hang of all these split loyalties.
‘And I am the amir,’ a resonant voice said.
Tallis looked up into the face of the man who had been standing apart. He had a long beard, no moustache and the kind of mesmerising eyes that burned into you. He wore a military-style cap on his head. It took a while for Tallis to work out that the man was smiling. It looked as if he was baring his teeth.
‘The amir?’
‘The leader. My name is Akhmet Elimkhanova. These are my warriors. And Bislan is my only son,’ he said, taking a step forward and putting an arm around Tallis in a half-hug. ‘I am indebted. You have my greatest thanks. Come, we will eat and feast and you will tell me what you are doing here in the mountains.’ Out of the corner of his eye Tallis saw Sprite scowling. He registered that the boy, cheated of his prize, would remain a danger to him. Of Graham Darke, there was no sign.