The Outsiders (54 page)

The hand slipped back, the face dropped below the ridge line. The target never called out.

Jonno did not know how many there were below his target. The torch beam was the first casualty and plunged away. There were shouts and oaths, then the buffeting of bodies. The target took them down.

The torch, for part of the fall, was tangled among arms and legs, then free of them. The way up the rockface, easy enough in daylight, moderate at dusk and difficult in darkness had been possible for Jonno who knew a route. Not for those men . . .

And the window? Not long. There were groans below him. Dislodged stone and earth still dribbled into the scrub at the bottom of the sheer rock wall. The sirens were clearer.

He had done what he could.

He should have felt good. He started to come down.

He knew the foot- and handholds. His target and those who’d followed him up had plunged off the rockface and into the scrub. They were back at a start point beside the entrance to the garden at the Villa del Aguila. The torchbeam showed them to Jonno.

He had to catch the window, be through it before it slammed . . .

They’d left him, the bastards.

He could hear them above him, and the stones in free fall.

The Major remembered the football, playing the game. The torch was underneath him or they would have taken it. He didn’t cry out because that would have shown weakness. Pain racked him – his ankle was probably broken. He had the torch in his fist and the beam was weak. He saw his men climbing, and another shape, loose and indistinct, that seemed to pass them as it came down. It moved easily, with smooth balance, and was lost in the undergrowth. There was silence.

He pulled himself up on the stile, and clutched the torch. They had played football in a lay-by on the road out of Pskov – they had stopped the car because Ruslan needed to piss . . . or it might have been Grigoriy. The Gecko had been left in the back of the vehicle. Either Ruslan or Grigoriy had found the mannequin, broken and dumped, but with the head on it. The Major could not have said what had started the game that afternoon but they had laughed and acted stupid. Either Ruslan or Grigoriy had recalled it that evening on the hill above Budapest. And the little
goluboy
– it was obvious what he was from the moment they’d started watching him – had fought to protect the bag chained to his wrist. There had been nothing effeminate about him. They had kicked him to put an end to his struggles. They had kicked men in Afghanistan – would have kicked men in Chechnya if they’d been there. They’d kicked his head because he was too fucking slippery to hold. They’d kicked him hard. Sympathy? No. Shame? No. Anger? Yes: they had kicked him, silenced him, battered the fight out of him, but couldn’t open the case. They had sawn off his arm – then found the key at his neck. And the case had been empty.

There had been no blow-back. He had heard no more of the matter. There had been no quiet calls from the
apparatchiks
, or from old colleagues now at desks in FSB. He had seen the face confronting him as he struggled for the last heave on to the ledge: a young face. He understood, as he had groped towards it, that he was accused because of the football game. He did not know who had stamped on his hand . . . All around him was the quiet.

His warrant officer and his master sergeant had abandoned him. They had gone into the night. He couldn’t see Pavel Ivanov or the Serbs, who were wanted for murder. He could see the dog. It wouldn’t desert him. He didn’t know its name so he whistled, and saw the ears come up.

He started to crawl down the path that led through the undergrowth and went towards the hut. Beyond it were the lawn, the dog and the light. The pain came in rivers.

She stood behind him and leaned across his shoulder. Her arms were outstretched, one hand covering his, and she steadied the main body of the Dragunov ahead of the telescopic sight. Her right hand was over his fist and touched the finger that rested on the guard.

Under her hands there was faint movement and she knew the sight followed the man. He was on his stomach. She thought his left ankle was askew, which meant he had broken it, but he had not shouted or screamed.

He was past the hut. Her breast was against Sparky’s ear. Nothing was said. The cross-hairs would be tracking him.

Her hands covered his loosely. She thought Sparky was in torment.

He was in the garden, skirting the shrubs that the flight lieutenant (ret’d) had not pruned, and was near the cat’s grave when he heard the shot.

There was a crack. It kicked the quiet, then was gone. He thought the sirens were closer and that little time remained before the window slammed.

He ran to the kitchen door. He didn’t switch on any lights but groped his way into the hall. His bag was there, with Posie’s and Sparky’s, in a neat little line close to the front door. Posie was coming down, carrying the rifle. She was rubbing at it vigorously with a hand towel. Between her fingers there was a small sack of ammunition. Jonno took it all from her.

He went back through the kitchen, out into the garden, crossed the long grass and slipped under the trees and shrubs between the properties. It had all been planned. He did not argue with the instructions Posie had brought back from the telephone call. Ahead of him he saw the lights that burned high and bright over that garden. He would never see it again. He might remember it when he was unable to sleep at night, what had happened there.

He threw the rifle over the wall, heard the clatter as it landed, then tossed the ammunition after it. He kept hold of the towel as he doubled back.

He passed the little grave for the last time.

Inside the kitchen, he locked the back door, put the key on the hook where they had found it a lifetime ago. The others were at the door and held it open for him. Jonno closed it, locked it and put the key under the same plant pot where it had been left for him. He took a deep breath and turned.

They went down the path, Jonno leading, Sparky sandwiched between them, and slipped away in shadow to the left when they hit the chippings. There were three or four police wagons with the lights turning in front of the big wall. Some were working with a crowbar to open the locked front gates.

They were in the shadows, wraiths and ghosts. Opposite the empty villa’s gates was the short-cut track that kids staying might have used, or staff. It plunged down the steep slope where the road had been cut out for the development, and they were in thorn, scrub and bramble. Some of the ground beneath their feet was still loose from the excavations. They slid and stumbled but kept the pace. Jonno thought Sparky had Posie’s arm, and when he hesitated and looked into the blackness for a route out it was Sparky who, without ceremony, pushed him on. He would never forget them, ever: he reckoned the conspiracy had bonded them. They crossed a ditch filled with cardboard boxes, compacted, rubbish bags and builders’ waste. Jonno was on his hands and knees going up the far side and into the light of a streetlamp, Sparky hauling Posie after him. They were on tarmac.

The pavement was wide enough.

Jonno organised it: Sparky was between them, his arms locked through Jonno’s and Posie’s – he was fitter than either of them. They jogged. More police vehicles went by them, sirens blaring, and an ambulance. It was a clean street, with lanes running off it and through the mass of small white-painted homes. Sparky set the pace.

Across the road were the bus station and the taxi rank. They ran to a cab, climbed in and Posie did the business.

Distance: thirty-six miles. Journey duration: around thirty minutes. Price: negotiable. A ripple of euros made the young driver’s eyes water. They filled the back seat and the rucksacks were on their knees as they made their strategic withdrawal, fast.

Few would have seen him because he kept to the shadows at the side of the building, but the entrance was well lit and he had a good view of it and of the car park.

Many would have heard him. The family of Gonsalvo, officer of the state’s internal intelligence-gathering organisation and occasionally managing matters of organised crime, had pleaded with him to reduce his nicotine intake. To have demanded that he give up and sign a pledge not to go back to it would have been hopeless. He was gaunt and thin but his brain worked well. He was able to make judgements as to what was in the ultimate interests of his country, and what was not. Such a judgement had caused him to call his colleague, Dawson, from the capital’s airport and brief him. Such a judgement, also, had brought him far south to the backwater of La Linea and its Customs and emigration building. As he started to cough the headlights caught him. There was the squeal of tyres on a turn, then the scream of brakes.

He saw the plates, knew it was their taxi.

Stepping from the shadows, he intercepted them.

Easy for Gonsalves to see which was the marksman and which the young man who had come for a winter break. The message Dawson had given to the girl was that if they arrived before the schedule lapsed they would be met.

He held out his hand, flicked his fingers for them to hurry, and they gave him the passports.

A smile played on his lips. They were a sight – they’d raise eyebrows. He walked them inside. No others were doing the crossing at that time of night. He held up the passports, showed them to the single official at a desk, and to the Guardia Civil girl. He walked them back out into the night and led them to where the white line crossed the road. There was one more building to go through, with a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. The one of Juan Carlos I was behind them. The coughing caught him again, and when he had straightened he pointed beyond the building: it was floodlit, and waited. No record that they had passed emigration at La Linea, gateway to Gibraltar, existed.

He seldom spoke – other than to his dog. He did not believe it necessary to warn the three that what was in the past was a matter for extreme discretion: others would do that later and reinforce the message with bribes and threats of penalties. What the three had achieved humbled him, and would humble many others.

They were gone. He walked back, lit another cigarette, and hacked. He felt satisfied.

‘About fucking time . . .’

The engines had started.

They were in a line. Kenny had the aisle, best leg room, Dottie beside him, and Winnie Monks had the window seat. They had been on board for half an hour already. No drinks served, no snacks. Dottie said they weren’t going anywhere yet because the doors were still open. She’d shrugged, and Winnie Monks’s impatience was building. There was bustle and movement by the door. In their hearing, a stewardess said to her colleague, with exasperation, that ‘they’ were here ‘at last’ and ‘now perhaps we can get in the air’. Winnie wondered who could delay a commercial flight for . . .

She saw them.

A young man, unshaven, filthy, torn clothes, blood on his face, trailing a rucksack. She might have exploded if she hadn’t seen Sparky following, with the look of a man bowed by what he had endured; his gaze flitted right, left, and down the aisle. If he had seen her he showed no sign of it, but his eyes were bright. The girl walked well, had poise: a bloody good thing because she might have come off a building site at the end of a hard day, then run through barbed wire. Her bare legs were slashed, her dress was torn, and her hair was knotted, but she blazed with defiance. They had seats against the bulkhead far down the aisle . . . It would have been Dawson who’d held an aircraft until the death rattle of an operation. The bloody Six people always had style that Five couldn’t match, damn them.

Winnie Monks, a frown furrowing her head, had slipped the safety-belt catch and was half out of her seat, but rose no further: Dottie had pressed a hand into her lap. She subsided.

‘Not our show, Boss. You should leave them. Not our show because we quit on them.’

Jonno was asleep before the aircraft lifted.

And the next day . . .

The director general said, ‘I’ve heard a bit about this, Winnie, and I’m not really in the mood to learn more. There’s a big world out there, and the opportunities are varied and rewarding for an individual of talent and commitment. My suggestion is that you seize the chance being offered you. There’ll be a financial settlement to cover the disruption in your life that I assure you will be beyond our usual limits. On or off the record I couldn’t possibly comment on the events of last night in southern Spain . . . May I change the subject matter? It’s raining cats and dogs out there, November, but I had my driver drop me off at Parliament Square and walked the rest. Lunatic, of course, but I had a spring in my step. Know what I mean? We’re now servants to Health and bloody Safety and Human Rights but we cut our teeth on Cold War escapades and sharp-end adventures in the Province. We’re grateful to you for having wound back the clock. Thank you . . . We’ll miss you, Winnie, but it’s for the best.’

There was sleet in the air and the clouds were dark and stacked. There had been rain during the night and a light sprinkling of hail. The two junior staffers from the Budapest embassy stood on the sodden grass. One held the bouquet and the other read aloud the message received from London. The instructions of where they should be and where the flowers should be laid were specific. Neither had ever heard the name of Damian Fenby, nor knew that an intelligence officer – Winnie Monks of Five – had stood at almost that exact spot less than two weeks before. The card on the flowers read,
Damian, Never forgotten. With love from your friends on the Graveyard Team
. They were close to a pretty statue in rough-cast bronze that showed a young woman standing beside the head and shoulder of a newborn foal, life size. The flowers were laid on the grass close to the statue, and it was likely that the sleet, when it came, would destroy the precise arrangement. They stood for a moment, in ignorance of whom they honoured, then turned and hurried for their car.