Chapter Fifteen

From behind the thick trunk of a pine, Iveri Samushia peered through a night scope.

‘Russians?’ Nadir Mohamedov’s voice was close to Samushia’s ear.

Samushia hesitated. He wanted to say ‘yes’ but knowing the consequence of a mistake whispered, ‘Not sure yet’.

The words clogged his throat but he’d seen what Chechens did with mistakes. The night scope wasn’t accurate enough at this distance for him to be certain whether the shapes moving through the trees were Russians, Abkhaz or an unknown party of Chechens. Scouts had spotted this group shortly after the pass. They came from the north like Russians, but were in a small group like Abkhaz or Chechens. Samushia didn’t care who they were. They were his enemies and Enna’s. The house looked quiet and he prayed under his breath to no god in particular that she’d already left.

He handed the scope to Mohamedov who looked into the semi-darkness, intent and silent. Samushia always felt unnerved by the Chechen’s remoteness and irritated by his air of moral superiority. He’d grown up with occasional glimpses of these men and stories of their reputation as warriors who would kill their own wounded rather than let them be captured. The last time Georgians and Abkhaz fought, Chechens had supported the Abkhaz. Samushia had been fifteen, a schoolboy still mourning Enna’s departure from Rulini. Chechen boys younger than himself had killed Georgians and been killed. But Russia supported Abkhazia now and so Mohamedov was here, by his side.

This knowledge did nothing for Samushia’s peace of mind as he watched from among the trees, waiting for his family to be attacked, maybe killed. As he continued staring into the darkness the shapes grew more distinct, becoming uniformed men with guns.

‘Maybe Russians,’ Mohamedov whispered. ‘Hard to tell.’

Samushia grabbed the scope and pressed it to his eye. Horrified he saw Tamar step out of the kitchen, bucket in hand. He wanted to shout a warning. He didn’t care who the enemy was, but he knew as certainly as he knew anything that if Mohamedov and his men were drawn into a firefight against their strategic aims and their fucking honour, he would be held responsible and his unit would lose all Chechen support. Close to tears of frustration he wondered what sort of honour allowed a man to watch as his ally’s family were threatened.

No movement disturbed the yard except Tamar’s retreating footsteps. Then she cried out, loud and shrill, repeating the word ‘Russian, Russian, Russian’, like an alarm.

‘Did you hear that?’ Samushia hissed, starting to his feet. ‘She said “Russian”.’

‘Is she Russian?’

‘No.’

The older man’s eyes were invisible in the darkness but Samushia knew that he was being assessed.

‘Okay, okay, she’s both – Russian and Svan. She’s my cousin!’ Tamar’s screams filtered through the trees, assaulting Samushia’s ears. ‘What does it matter?’ he demanded, ‘They’ll kill her!’

‘We fight only Russians tonight, we have agreed this with your commander.’

‘And if they are Russian?’

‘Then we will kill them.’

Samushia strained to hear the voices in the yard, but Tamar’s screaming drowned out all other sound.

‘Do you doubt us?’ Mohamedov asked quietly.

Samushia didn’t respond. Tamar was suddenly quiet and he was hearing his aunt’s voice, fearful, demanding and abruptly silenced. Moments dragged past then he heard the crash of a shotgun and the voice he’d been longing and dreading to hear. He turned on Mohamedov, furious at waiting for this man’s permission to protect his own family in his own homeland.

‘What use is killing after they are dead?’

‘Then save them yourself.’ Mohamedov said and looked again through the night scope.

Samushia was on his feet whistling for Svan support when a scout appeared silently behind him and whispered to Mohamedov that the men in the yard were Russian. Samushia understood enough Chechen to grasp that.

‘Certain?’, he asked the scout.

‘Certain.’

Suddenly Enna was screaming and Samushia knew if he didn’t reach her right now something inside him would burst. ‘We go,’ he screamed, ‘go!’

Svans, men he’d known since before he could walk and talk, appeared beside him. Mohamedov signalled the Chechens. Then they were all moving into the yard.

Samushia headed straight for the knot of Russians who, suddenly aware of attack, broke and ran for the tree-line, leaving two men on the ground. Samushia was not among the pursuers. Alone he looked around the farmyard and counted five bodies. Three were motionless. Two were still moving.

Fifteen minutes later, when he’d separated the living from the dead and was sure he’d got everything he could out of the screaming Russian, he inserted a narrow blade deep under the bastard’s left ear and sliced it round to meet the right. The man’s gurgling rattle dissolved something in Samushia’s own chest and he started to shake. Kneeling in the sticky, churned-up dirt of his aunt’s yard he hugged his arms to his body to keep them still.

His face was wet, still distorted with horror and pleasure, when Mohamedov re-entered the yard. Seeing the young Svan’s bloody hands the man paused and looking down at him nodded briefly, before he turned and walked back into the forest.