The Dark Chronicles (91 page)

She gasped and then coughed up water. Her eyes started to close.

‘Don’t give up now,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t give up now.’

Perhaps she heard me, because she placed the palms of her hands against the rocks and lifted herself to her knees.

I helped her to her feet and pointed to a line of woods behind us.

‘Can you run?’ I said.

She nodded dully, and we started making our way towards the woods. There were patches of snow and black ice, but adrenalin and the survival instinct had kicked in and we somehow managed to make our way across them. We had to get to cover. I couldn’t have come this far to fail.

We reached the top of a slope and I looked out at a large field, lit by the moon. There were trees all around the perimeter, but the field itself was completely barren – just grass, broken up with patches of snow and ice. No cover. Behind us, the sound of the rotors was almost deafening. I resisted the urge to look, but clearly we couldn’t go back down that way. Should we skirt the edge of the field and try to get around to the other side? That would be too obvious, and too time-consuming.

We had to find people, and warmth. There was a barn with white window frames at the far end of the field and, closer, an
utedass
– an outhouse. I turned to point it out to Sarah, but she wasn’t there. I looked frantically back at where we had just come from, but she had disappeared. She must have fallen, and I couldn’t see her in the snow over a ridge. I began to run back towards the water when a burst of machine-gun fire broke through the trees, cracking in my ears and making me drop to the ground instinctively.

Fuck.

I started running towards the
utedass
.

I had misjudged the situation horribly. Sarah was in worse shape than I had realized, and the Russians were much closer than I’d thought – gunfire clattered behind me before I was even halfway across the stretch, and the helicopter was now coming down to land in the field. I kept running, my arms starting to flail and my legs feeling like they might give way, heading for the door of the outhouse
and praying it wouldn’t be the last thing I saw before the bullets hit me in the back. I reached the door and opened it, then slammed it behind me.

It was pitch dark and, unsurprisingly, smelled foul. The gunfire had stopped for a moment, and I wondered if somehow I had fooled them and they’d lost sight of me. But then I heard a voice, and recognized it at once.

‘Nobody move!’ shouted Sasha. ‘Hold your fire until I say.’ His voice was controlled, confident. He was no stamp collector any more. I leaned forward a fraction of an inch and peered through a slat in the wood. There he was, his silhouette clear against the background of snow. He was packed up in a winter coat,
ushanka
still in place. And one gloved hand was gripping Sarah by the arm. She was hanging off him, crying, and I thought I could see the tears freezing on her cheeks. He looked triumphant, like a hunter with his prize.

‘Come on, Paul!’ he shouted, his voice echoing off the trees. ‘Time to come out now.’

There was a small bench surrounding the toilet, and I climbed onto it. I prised the lid away, my thumbs shaking, and immediately recoiled at the stench. But the hole looked too small. I kicked at the side of it with the sole of my boot until the wood splintered and the hole widened. Then I held my shoulders tightly together, and lowered myself into it. The edges chafed against my skin through the wet clothes but I was in. I felt my legs sink into the frozen dried shit and piss and leaves, and vomit rose in my throat. I was in a small dugout under the outhouse – as I had hoped, it was open all around. And beyond me were trees. I ran blindly towards them. I must have gone fifty yards before I heard Sasha shouting again. But I was away from the Russians by then – for the moment.

I watched as Sasha and several men marched across the field towards the barn, dragging Sarah along with them. Having run far enough into the trees to be out of their line of sight, I’d picked up a piece of brush and swept away the tracks behind me. I hadn’t spent as much time on it as I would usually have done, though, because everything I did now had to be a compromise. I had to take precautions if I wanted to stay alive, and if I wanted to get Sarah back. But the longer I took, the less likely it was that I would be able to reach the U-boat.

Once I was confident that I’d gone far enough in, I headed towards a ridge that overlooked the far corner of the field, and climbed onto the lower branches of a large pine. It was called the Fish Hook, a simple if unexpected manoeuvre, and it meant I could observe my hunters and get an idea of their strength and what equipment they’d brought with them.

Apart from Sarah, I could make out two others in the field: Sasha and another man. Both of them looked heavily armed, but Sasha’s companion was also carrying a case, which even in the moonlight I recognized as being the type they had used in the war to carry long-range transceivers. Presumably the rest of the company had been dispersed to look for me.

Sasha knocked on the door of the cottage, and after a few seconds a man opened it. I couldn’t see his face, but no doubt he was alarmed at the sight of Russian soldiers with a female prisoner. Sasha gestured
with his arms, pointing back towards the helicopter. Perhaps the bastard was claiming that Sarah was an injured member of his party. The door opened more widely, and Sasha, his companion and Sarah stepped into the cottage.

I lowered myself from the branches and glanced through the thicket of trees at the small bay: I could make out the ripple of water under the sky, and some bulky shapes dotted in the trees: more cottages, or perhaps boathouses? It was so quiet one could hardly imagine that there were Soviet operatives hunting me out there, but Sasha would have sent a few and they would be searching for my tracks with torches.

It was equally hard to imagine that this place might soon be contaminated by fallout, but that too was real. The Soviets would want to stop me from reaching the West as a matter of course, but I had now made it across the border and they were still chasing me – and they were shooting to kill. The fact that Sasha was here confirmed that the situation hadn’t changed since I’d left Moscow this morning. The fools thought I was trying to reach someone in authority in the West so I could warn them they were about to be attacked. Brezhnev had held his hand so far, but it looked like he was still poised to launch a strike against the West, and wanted to make sure that if he did he kept it a surprise.

It was also interesting that it had been Sasha in the helicopter, not Yuri. That suggested that
he
was the Proshin who had called Raaitikainen, not Yuri. So he was Yuri’s son – why hadn’t I realized it before? Well, they didn’t look much alike. It made perfect sense, though. Yuri had been my first handler, and Sasha had been my last. It also explained why Sasha had been so surly towards me in Moscow: he had joined the GRU to follow in his old man’s footsteps and had risen through the ranks, but had been taken off proper work by his father to deal with me, and he resented it. I knew the feeling.

It also seemed that Sasha had been given the task of finding and eliminating me, as well as a hunter-killer unit with which to do it. I’d
been part of a similar group once, but that was twenty-four years ago. These men were half my age, in peak physical condition and no doubt hungry for my blood on account of Bessmertny and whatever else they’d been told I’d done. Once they had found and killed me, Sasha would signal back to Moscow and Brezhnev would launch his strike on the West – provided he was prepared to wait even that long. There was always the possibility that Sasha would signal that they were still hunting me, and he felt the time was optimal.

I was alive for the time being, but what was my best course of action now? I was on an island in the middle of the Baltic, but I had no idea which one. It might not even be anywhere near Söderviken. I was soaked to the skin, my face was smeared with blood and faeces, and I was in the danger zone for hypothermia. The tremors hadn’t returned, thankfully, but my heart rate had dramatically increased after we’d crashed into the water and my entire body had tensed up, so it was taking time for it to calm down again.

I hugged myself for warmth, and wondered if I should remove my clothes. They had stuck to my skin, and my shoes were starting to break apart. In 1945, I’d brought plastic bags to place over my socks, and then another pair of socks to place over the bags, in case I had been stranded and had needed to stop the onset of frostbite. There wasn’t much chance of that happening now, but it was still below freezing: icicles were hanging from the lower fronds of the tree. I was losing heat because my clothes were wet, and my training dictated that I remove them and make a fire to dry them. But I didn’t have time to do that, and being naked even for a short while in this environment would probably worsen my state. I might also need to approach one of the locals, and a man in wet clothes with shit all over his face would still be more welcome than a naked one. I decided to keep my clothes on for the time being.

My only advantage against Sasha and his men was that I was alone. Although that thought wasn’t exactly comforting, because
they had Sarah, it also meant that I could move much more easily than they could. There were thousands of islands here, and thousands of trees, outhouses and barns dotted among them: they couldn’t begin to search them all. I also had a slim psychological advantage: the Russians had massively outnumbered the Finns in 1940, and had had a rude awakening. They would be keenly aware of this, and if any of them had fathers who had died in the war a part of them would be afraid to be in Finland. Angry and determined to find me, yes – but also a little afraid.

It was also an advantage that Sasha was here, and that he had brought that transceiver. If I could reach the canisters, get them out of the water and show them to him, I might still have a chance. If I could prove that the injuries at the bases were part of an accidental leak, he could then transmit a message to that effect back to Moscow. If he did, it would hold a lot more sway than if it came from an official in the Soviet consulate in Åland, which had been my plan to date.

But the new plan meant I would have to
let
them hunt me. I’d have to keep them just close enough that they would be on hand when I reached the mustard gas. But not so close that they could kill me before then. It was a tall order, but it was all I could think of. My first task was to find a diving suit.

I sat in the tree watching, and then Sasha and the other man came out of the barn and began walking towards the north-eastern edge of the field, where there was a dirt road. I waited a few more minutes for them to make their way down the path, then slowly lowered myself out of the branches.

As I picked up a piece of brush, I registered movement in my peripheral vision, but before I could turn I was pushed back by the force of a kick to my chest and lost my balance. I thudded into the trunk of the tree, and as I tried to regain my breath, I caught sight of my assailant: his face was streaked with mud and he was raising a gun at me. He brought his forearm down in a scything motion and I leapt to my right. As I did, I caught one of the branches with
my hand and it sprang back and scratched the Russian’s face. He cursed, and tried to aim again, so I dived for his feet and brought him down. He landed on the back of his head, his gun falling from his hand. I leaned over and punched him in the jaw, but my chest was tight with pain and the swing was slow as a result – it hardly made any impact. He kicked out again and his boot caught me in the shoulder. He started scrabbling towards his gun, which lay a few inches away from him on the ground. I knew he was going to make it, and turn and shoot me through the eyes. Desperate, I raised my arms for the branch above me and caught hold of something cold and wet. An icicle. I snapped it off and brought it down as hard as I could, and the point penetrated his throat before he had a chance to scream.

I retrieved the pistol, another Makarov, and placed it next to me. I started to strip off his trousers, which were nice and dry, but then a loud squelching sound burst from him and I froze. It was coming from beneath his jacket, which I removed to reveal a vest with several large pouches. Grenade, signal flare, knife, rations – and a small receiver.

The static cut off, and a voice broke through.

‘Medov, Zelenin, this is Rook – any sign of the target?’

It was Sasha.

There was another burst of static, and then a new voice:
‘This is Medov. No sign of him here.’

Static, then Sasha came on again.

‘Zelenin, how about you?’

I stared down at Zelenin’s chest, panic sweeping through me. I couldn’t reply – Sasha would recognize my voice at once. Even if I tried to disguise it, he would still know I wasn’t Zelenin. But if I didn’t answer, he would reason that I might have killed Zelenin and send men back this way to find me.

There was no time to waste. I put the pistol and transmitter in my pockets, then stumbled through the trees, my chest aching from the high kick, my body numb with cold. Fifteen agonizing
minutes later I found a small cottage in a clearing, and I climbed the steps to the door and hammered on it. A woman opened it halfway, and peered out. She was old, with matted grey hair, and wore a faded blue dress and a white shawl. I pushed past her and staggered into the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the light and taking in the simple pine furniture, a fireplace, a kettle on a stove.

‘I need your help,’ I said in Swedish, my breathing coming hard. ‘Please… Please call Degerby police station and ask for Constable Lundström.’

I took in her look of fear and astonishment, and then my legs buckled and I fell to the floor.

*

Someone was shaking me by the shoulder, and I opened my eyes. Looking up, I recognized the old woman, and asked her how long I had been out.

‘Not long,’ she said. ‘Perhaps half an hour.’

I was still on the floor, and I rose to my feet. My chest felt constricted and I was aching all over, but my head was clear. Half an hour was a hell of a long time.