not in Dublin, and you had to know what the Provies were at, and you spent your nights low down in cars outside the pubs watching for who went in and who came out, and who was talking to whom, and had he done it before. That was important all right if you wanted a man to be able to take his missus for a Friday night jar in the local in Birmingham, or Manchester, or Glasgow or Guildford. Had the
'74 campaign and the '75 campaign, and the bombs taking off the arms and legs, and the glass scything the faces, to show for justification of spending his evenings watching the Paddys at their booze. But hard to convince himself that what he did now was of value. Nice to know, of course, that Big Brother was having difficulties as he sat all serene behind his watch towers, his mine fields and barbed-wire fences. Nice to know that the mosquitoes were out and nibbling, that he was scratching a bit, that he'd be turning over in his bed and cursing.
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 chance 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.
