Never led the way through a maze of sheds, barracks and hangers and Jones realised how easy it would have been easy to lose himself here. They passed through a steel-plated door and into an echoing building of dense concrete walls and thin corridors.
‘Wait in there.’ Never stopped and pointed Jones through yet another a door. ‘My commanding officer is a good man, not much interested in journalists … or soldiers,’ he smiles, ‘but he’ll authorise what you need, then I’ll find a coat for you.’
Never’s footsteps echoed away along the passage. Jones looked around the narrow room which was empty except for a plank bench the length of the back wall. He sat down to check his cameras for the third time since leaving Kossov. Lifting his old film camera out of its padded case he held it in both hands for a moment. It was heavy, metal-bodied, very different to the super light, high-tech, digital camera he used more and more now. But there was something about this one, something serious. When he looked through its eyepiece and pressed the shutter, it was for real. He never felt that with the digital equipment; there was too much choice, too many possibilities. He felt the camera in his hand and wondered whether that was who he was now, heavy and serious and from another era. Handling the cameras was relaxing; they were his tools and sometimes he loved them as an artist might love a paintbrush. He laid the camera back in its foam bed and shut the case.
‘You!’
Jones looked up. A squat man stood in the doorway, legs spread. Behind his over-muscled shoulders other eyes appeared, trying to get a view.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ As he got up, Jones’s eyes flicked to the catch on his equipment case, checking, double checking, that it was secure.
The speaker stepped forward. ‘He knows our language, that’s good. Maybe he’ll understand what I’m going to say.’ He stepped forward again and Jones recognised the arsenal of menace in the man’s body-language. ‘We’ve brought you a present.’
‘A present.’ Jones replied, carefully and without inflection.
‘Yes. We want to welcome you. Take off your clothes English.’
The old denial was on his lips, then he realised what had been said.
‘Why would you want me to do that?’
‘Because it’s an order. If you don’t obey they’ll be taken off you. Marovsky …’
The speaker gestured to a man who stepped forward and dumped a pile of camouflage clothing at Jones is feet. He looked down slowly, giving himself time to think. Don’t antagonise, don’t back off.
He said, ‘I’m not a soldier, I have no right to this uniform.’
The man’s eyes narrowed, reassessing. ‘That’s true. You have no right to be with us at all, but the fools who run these things have agreed to it.’ He stepped close enough for Jones to feel the hot, vodka-tainted breath, a very different brand to the Colonel’s. ‘Now I, Sergeant Viktor Krasin, tell you that if you come with us it will be as one of us, or not at all. You will wear this uniform to which you have no right and you will obey when I give you an order.’ He stepped back, ‘Off. Now!’
Without moving his eyes from other man’s, Jones stripped. He took his time, lingering over buttons, sliding cloth from his shoulders, hips. The men with Krasin shifted awkwardly, muttering. Wearing only underpants, Jones smiled pleasantly.
Krasin kicked the pile of clothing. ‘Put it on.’
The man was losing and knew it. Hiding a grin, Jones stepped into the fatigues which were an inch or so too short and tight in the thigh. Then he picked up the striped vest, the famous Russ
Lepov?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
From the back. ‘He was a good guy.’
Krasin turned on the speaker. ‘No one told you to open your mouth, so shut it.’
There were no holes, no stains. Jones turned the jacket round in his hands. ‘What happened to Lepov? Where did he go to?’
An invisible voice answered from the crowded doorway, ‘Home, in a box. He died of a heart attack. Or maybe it was exhaustion, or malnutrition. Or was it fear, Sergeant?’
Krasin moved faster than his dense bulk implied. ‘You’re a liar comrade Lieutenant, a soft creature who understands nothing about soldiers or about being a soldier.’
The handful of soldiers with Krasin scattered, leaving him and Never facing each other. Looking at the two very different men, their faces an arms length apart, Jones felt a flare of recognition as something primitive and unfamiliar stirred in him and his heart leapt briefly in his chest. He glanced down as if expecting to see it beating out through his skin, through the incongruous striped vest.
‘You university types are all the same,’ Krasin sneered. His face was shiny with sweat and looking at his over-wrought muscles Jones thought he must be pumped to bursting with steroids. ‘Fancy words, fancy education. You think you understand everything, but you know nothing. Lepov died because he was no better than a woman when it really mattered.’
Never’s mouth opened and Krasin stepped forward, arms rigid by his sides.
‘A heart attack,’ Jones said casually, picking up his camera case, ‘how unfortunate.’ He patted the name on the camouflage jacket. ‘I can assure you, Sergeant Krasin, that my heart is in excellent condition. You need have no worry about me. Thank you for my present, I shall enjoy wearing it more than you can imagine.’
One of the men giggled involuntarily.
Krasin looked around him and said, airily, ‘It’s a long road to where we’re going.’
‘Is that the title of a song?’ Jones asked innocently.
The man who’d giggled laughed aloud and this time his companions joined in despite Krasin, who turned a dark red and pushed his way out of the room.
When they were alone again Never said, ‘He’ll try to punish us for that.’
‘What can he do?’ Jones asked, surprised. ‘It’s got to be bluster and bullshit surely? He’s the Sergeant and you’re an officer.’
‘An officer? And when did rank matter in this army?’ Never shook his head. ‘It’s not bullshit, believe me. Krasin’s a brutal man who’s found his niche. I’m not. You should remember that.’
‘Okay, I hear you.’ He glanced down at the name on his chest. ‘Was that true, what you said about Lepov?’
‘He was eighteen, a young eighteen, but unlike all the others he wouldn’t give in to Krasin’s shit about control and being a soldier. He was also little and skinny - Krasin hates that in anyone, so he broke him, physically. One night out on exercise Lepov just fell over and didn’t get up. Krasin wouldn’t let any of the others help him, so he lay there until it was light. When they eventually went to him he was dead.’ Never pushed his hair away from his glasses. ‘I don’t think the kid gave up in his mind. At least, I hope he didn’t.
‘And Krasin tries the same thing with you?’
‘He tries it with everyone, even you I see.’
Jones looked at the stripes crossing his chest, then grinned at Never and said, ‘I almost paid a hundred dollars for one of these.’
On waste ground behind the least used latrines, Jones started sending a message. Military electronics could affect the signal here, but he guessed there’d be few opportunities as good as this to let Ivan know how things were. Here in the dark with only the red light of his recorder for company he had an unexpected urge to let his friend know that he’d arrived; that things were already not as anticipated; that this might well be his only report for some time. He plugged the recorder into the sat-phone’s USB port and watched as the link was made and the data transferred. After a minute, the words came back, ‘Send Successful’.
The sky was fading from night to slate-grey dawn when he packed the satphone away. A wind blew the acrid latrine smell around him and his eyes stung briefly. He knew, from long experience, that after a few days with Never and his unit he’ll have stopped noticing such things. Briefly he wondered at his own ability to adapt. He’d used to speculate on how office workers survived their eight-hour rut. Recently he’d begun to think that maybe a rut was a rut.
Never appeared and Jones marvelled at how he always seemed to know exactly where he was.
‘We’re starting to load. I’ve got your jacket and gloves, you’ll freeze otherwise and I’ll be blamed.’ He sounded petulant.
‘What’s up?’ Jones asked as they walked.
‘Everything. Everything’s mad. Are you aware that I might have to shoot someone?’ He stopped moving and pushed his glasses up to rub both eyes with the heels of his hands. In the early light his long, Slav cheekbones seemed knife sharp under their covering of skin. Looking at him Jones guessed his age at about thirty, but Russians lived hard and died young.
‘How old are you Alexei?’
‘What? I’m twenty eight. What’s that got to do with anything?’
Jones shrugged, ‘Just a question.’
Looking irritated by the interruption Never said,’ What the fuck do we think we’re doing? I mean, if people where we’re going don’t do what we tell them, what then? We shoot them? Shoot women and children?’ He paused, glaring at Jones. ‘And you, why are they letting you come with us? Krasin’s a piece of shit but I see his point … do they really want the world to know what goes on with us? It’s all fucking mad.’
Jones said. ‘Don’t worry, comrade, it’s all under control – well, my involvement is anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’ Never snapped, still angry.
Jones smiled. ‘You don’t think I’ll get any reports out, do you? The one I sent just now, that’s the last. Timofeev’s a shrewd operator; he’s made quite certain I’m cut off until it’s all over. No power source for this …’ he points to his comms pack, ‘and if I ask your signals guys for a favour I’m sure there’ll always be some reason why they can’t help me out. Without technology it’ll be a long time before anything I do gets out. Maybe too long.’
‘What are you saying? That by the time you get back your reports won’t be news any more?’
Jones nodded.
‘Then why are you here?’
The simplicity of the question took Jones by surprise. He smiled, ‘I was just wondering about that myself.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘A good story doesn’t have to be news. I waited a long time for the chance to write about Russ
‘Now I know you’re mad,’ Never interrupted. ‘Why would anybody wants to write about that?’
‘It’s a complex story. The whole
‘Let’s hope that is what you get to write about.’ Never said glumly. ‘I’m not convinced.’ He looked at Jones narrowly. ‘Are you a spy?’
Jones shook his head, then wondered if that was the truth. ‘No Alexei, I’m a whore.’
‘Are you being paid a lot of money?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then you’re a cheap whore or a stupid one. Why would anyone be in this place if he didn’t have to?’ Again, Never looked at Jones as if seeing through him. Then he shook his head. ‘No. These are some of your reasons and maybe they’re true, or maybe not. But they aren’t the reason.’ He smiled, though not, Jones noticed, with his whole face. ‘Well my friend - in the words of Sergeant Krasin - the road is long where we’re going. There should be plenty of opportunity for me to find you out.’
Jones laughed. ‘Man, don’t waste your time on me. I’m really not that interesting.’
Never said, ‘We laugh now, but maybe it’s not so funny in a few days time. The road is long. It’s also empty and dangerous. Out there Krasin will have more power than me, more power than Timofeev at his desk back here. You should think of an answer that will satisfy him, and soon. He will want to know everything - who you are, why you’re with us. Russ
‘I’ll just have to keep out of his way then.’
‘You enjoy all this,’ Never said, his voice neutral.
Jones looked towards the roar of trucks starting up. ‘You noticed.’
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