Part Four: Restoration
A Beach, a Bitch and Another Bike
Skala Kallonis
I wake up feeling groggy. My head aches badly and I feel sore all over. If my senses weren’t numbed I guess I’d be in agony.
I have no idea where I am.
Through bleary eyes I can make out a small bedroom with plain, whitewashed, rough concrete walls. There’s a sizeable old wardrobe along one wall. It looks like it was handmade at some point in the last century, and its duck-egg blue gloss paint is fading and peeling away from its many, naturally distressed, ill-fitting joints and edges.
There’s a small bedside table which seems similarly antique. On it is a tall thick glass of clear water so I gently ease myself onto my side and take a long drink from it. As I finish the last drops I suddenly hope I was right to assume it was there for me to consume...
The floor is stone tiled, with a handful of nondescript rugs scattered around the bedsides, and I notice that it feels warm in here – and not just because of the clean sheets and coarse wool blankets that I find I am cocooned beneath...
Lifting the sheets I can see I am naked, but this is not as alarming as the dark black, blue and red-purple mottling that appears to cover every inch of my skin. Well, every inch that isn’t bound in clean cotton bandages. The largest of these is, of course, wrapped around my upper thigh.
I can vaguely remember fragments from the last few days. For a while I was lying in the back of a small car. My legs couldn’t stretch out. Then I think I was in some sort of caravan or train or something. It seemed to roll and pitch gently. Given this obscure movement, I think it must have been a train but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember much else. I don’t even remember dreaming.
Jack must’ve dropped me off somewhere. Clearly, wherever I am, they’re looking after me and, given that the bedroom door is standing wide open, I’m not incarcerated in some prison.
He must’ve left.
I wouldn’t blame him...
I misled him. Betrayed his trust with my deception. Trust is critical in any relationship, let alone a life or death one, and once it’s been broken...
I try to sit myself up in the bed but it hurts too much, and my head starts to spin again, so I collapse back onto soft pillows.
My rustling noises have attracted attention from outside and I can hear what sounds like a pair of boots being hurriedly pulled off and dropped onto tiled flooring.
Someone is approaching the open doorway. I can see a large dark shadow sprinting across the distant stoneware toward me.
“Nick?” asks a familiar voice.
“Jack?” I croak.
~~~~~
Constanta
Murat Nagpal’s eyes narrowed as a grainy image appeared on the TV screen in front of him.
Sikand...
Somehow the news stations had finally got their hands on a photo from the Hungarian Police Boat. It was dark and poor resolution but most definitely his compatriot.
He stared angrily into the unseeing eyes of his friend.
“How did they find you?” he muttered to himself. “How?”
Even here, on the BBC World Service, the consensus remained that four of the six people killed in Budapest had been caught up in a gangland shoot out. The British had, only recently, confirmed that this man – Azat Sikand – had also been involved in the Victoria bombing. Their press were gleefully celebrating his untimely demise.
‘Breaking News: Evil Terrorist Confirmed Dead After Gangland Shootings In Hungary,’ spouted the white-on-red capitalised strap-line at the bottom of the screen.
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
I can feel cold tears trickling down my cheeks, but have no idea why they’re there. I haven’t cried for a very long time.
Jack stands by the bedside looking uncomfortable, like he’s not sure what to do. “It must be the drugs,” he mumbles. “I’ve had you sedated for the last few days. Seemed to be best. You must be in a lot of pain.”
“Can’t feel much,” I remind him.
“It must still hurt though?” he asks.
I nod. The infuriating tears continue. “You were supposed to leave me. You should have left me... I deceived you.”
Jack sits down on the edge of the bed and I notice he’s wearing a baggy, once black, now faded-grey, Guns ’N Roses tee-shirt and a pair of tatty looking khaki combat trousers which have been roughly cut down into three-quarter length shorts. The many pockets of the onetime combats are bulging with a random collection of household tools. His bare legs poke out from them and, beneath the leggy thatch of almost blonde hair, his skin is shaded pink as if from recent sunshine. He’s looking straight at me, jade eyes full of their familiar determination.
“I am not going to leave you,” he says forcefully.
~~~~~
Constanta
Sergei opened the outer door to the apartment, stepped in, and closed it again. “It’s me,” he called out quietly.
No answer.
He stepped forward carefully toward the door to the main living area and pushed it gently open.
Nagpal was standing in the middle of the room. All of Sergei’s scant possessions were scattered untidily around the man’s feet. He watched as the man finished flicking through one of the textbooks, and then threw it carelessly onto the piles.
“Tell me again about your journey here,” Nagpal growled. “From the start. Miss nothing out. Did you speak with anyone? Did anything strange happen? I need to know anything out of the usual. Anything at all.”
Sergei shrugged. His disenchantment with this man had continued unabated since the careless proclamations regarding his brother’s death, and now this – his few belongings ransacked with no regard or respect for his privacy. “I’ve already told you everything,” he said coldly. “A few casual conversations. All guarded. None that would have betrayed us. The minimum I could manage without blowing my cover by remaining mute.” Except, of course, he hadn’t told Nagpal everything – he hadn’t told his leader about his brief fainting attack. As far as Sergei was concerned, it hadn’t happened again since that one time in Poland and, given that he’d puked his guts up not long afterward, he’d written it off as being food poisoning that had triggered it. He certainly wasn’t going to make himself look, even in the slightest part, weak in the presence of this animal.
There was a small black box sitting on the corner of the nearby table which he only noticed because it suddenly bleeped. Amber LEDs started flashing on the box’s lid.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Nagpal was staring at him, face full of fury. “Keep still, Sergei. Don’t move.”
Sergei watched as the man collected the device and walked closer to him.
The bleeping intensified.
“What is it?” he asked again.
Nagpal reached out and roughly pulled the heavy coat he was wearing off his shoulders. Then he violently thrust the young man to one side.
Sergei stumbled amongst his possessions and fell untidily to the floor. Spinning himself over, he watched as the madman kicked and stamped at the coat until, finally, somewhere near the wide collar, his colleague’s Saint Vitus Dance was met with a crunching noise.
The bleeping box fell silent.
Hatred was painted all over Nagpal’s face when he slowly turned around. “They got to you somewhere, boy. They know where we are. They must have bugged the bag too. Sikand is dead because of you...”
Suddenly Sergei felt sick. He shook his head. “They can’t have...,” he muttered.
“THEY HAVE...!” raged Nagpal and Sergei cowered back at the stabbing force of the words. “Perhaps that’s why your brother died too...!”
‘Don’t say that,’ thought Sergei. ‘Please don’t say that...’
Nagpal turned away and took a couple of steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned back to him. The furious expression was gone. A more familiar bland half-smile flickered across Murat’s thin lips. He had changed back to chillingly rational in the blink of an eye. Except this man could never be described as rational. Sergei knew this now. He wished he’d known it years ago.
Nagpal wandered casually toward him, stooped down, and carefully swept the box over Sergei’s prone form. It remained silent. “It finds bugs,” he explained, voice disturbingly composed. “Not very well. It’s the best I could find round here. It won’t find complex devices. See?” He held the device to a cellphone. “Can’t even find this. I should be grateful that whatever they put in your coat was a cheap old piece of rubbish. Perhaps they expected us to find it? Who knows?”
Sergei carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position.
“We have to go,” Nagpal said, moving toward the apartment door. “Pack your stuff. I have to make a call and find us some new phones. Be ready when I return.”
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
It doesn’t take long for me to start moving around again. Albeit unsteadily.
I’m sitting in one of a pair of comfortably cushioned wicker chairs which sit on the shady veranda in front of Jack’s little villa. The building is a simple dwelling, with whitewashed cast-concrete walls and red half-moon tiles, and has a multitude of rambling lavender-flowered Wisteria clinging to its cornices. It stands, isolated, in its own grassy patch of field, surrounded by a low drystone wall which Jack continuously fusses over with varying degrees of constructive success. He is busy messing with one of the sections at the moment.
Further down the gentle slope, past his industrious activities, a tranquil blue sky with the merest scattering of fluffy white clouds overarches wild scrubland. Beyond that, I can see the flat calm waters of the Kolpos Kallonis – a huge, almost completely enclosed lagoon which cuts deeply into the island of Lesvos and turns the island into a large inverted ‘C’ shape sitting, as it does, a few short miles off the coast of Turkey.
The only noises come from screeching birds, or clanging goat bells, or the occasional fishing boat chugging lazily out toward the ocean. It’s so quiet that at times you think you’ve gone deaf. Except, of course, when Jack’s busy wall-building.
“Bollocks!” His loud curse cuts through the tranquil balmy air.
I smile to myself as he athletically heaves himself up, and over, the tremulous structure to retrieve whatever it is that he’s just dropped on the other side.
I hoist myself, less athletically, out of the chair and hobble gingerly toward the cool interior. I sense a short break and cup of tea will likely be welcomed by my ally and friend. The last time his industry went unchecked, there was less wall after he finished than before he’d begun.
“Tea break?” I inquire loudly over my shoulder and his fist emerges, thumbs up, above the stony fence-line.
Inside the villa the main room is a comfortable rectangle, furnished with a random collection of traditional furniture, pictures, and mysterious looking brass objects. It extends the width of the building with a small dining-kitchen, surprisingly modern toilet-come-shower room, and the main bedroom all accessible via three unpainted wooden doors which spread along its far wall.
I head for the open kitchen door, and past the room’s small and rarely used open fireplace. I can’t help but glance at its wide mantel as I pass. I know that Jack looks at it too, every time he goes in and out.
On it stand photos. Each one carefully dusted, with their frames meticulously clean. Photos of eight smiling young men. All with close-cropped hair. All looking proud to be wearing their uniforms.
The last photo is a group shot. Nine strapping examples of male physique at its prime. Each of them posing confidently, in muscle-rippled vest tops and thigh-packed shorts, as they stand there in front of a cluster of flapping, dust-blown, camouflaged tents. They’re all wearing wide-brimmed hats and expensive looking sunglasses to guard against what looks like a burningly bright sky.
Jack is the ninth man in this group. The picture is of his section, or squad if you prefer.
He was the one who made it home.
A slightly older version of this ninth grinning face appears in the veranda doorway. He must’ve jogged up the hill to have got here so quickly.
“So, is it ready yet?” the face asks with a familiar cheeky grin.
~~~~~
London
Greere walked back into the office from his latest update briefing with Sentinel. He looked as frustrated as he usually did after such encounters.
Ellard struggled to understand why Greere had such a problem reporting in to his boss. Sentinel seemed to be remaining supportive. If anything, he had appeared to be surprisingly pleased with the outcome in Hungary.
Ellard did however find it curious that a picture of Sikand had conveniently found its way, via some banal news channel, to every mainstream broadcaster worldwide. He suspected that someone, somewhere, possibly Sentinel or one of his mysterious superiors, was subtly making sure that the results of their endeavours were being made public. Even if the means by which they were reaching those ends were not.
“Any updates?” Greere spat at him odiously.
“Still nothing from the borders.” Ellard was spending most of his time monitoring chatter from the Hungarian borders. Some grainy CCTV images of Tin and Mercury, taken during the sprint across the city centre, had been circulating quietly within the various Hungarian Security Agencies. They weren’t particularly brilliant quality but he’d fully expected to hear about one, or both, of them being apprehended. So far they hadn’t – much to Ellard’s mild irritation – and he knew that the longer it went on, the more likely it was that they’d successfully got away. “They’re probably holed up in some village. Unable to move until Merc...”
“They’re long gone,” Greere interrupted him forcefully. “Tin will have jumped straight away, and I’ve said so many times.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellard turned back to his terminal, frowning at the rebuke.
“Anything else?”
“No, sir,” Ellard replied curtly.
Greere stared at the distant wall. “It’s a shame we lost that second bug. Perhaps we should have trusted Tin with more than just one of the expensive ones?”
Ellard shook his head. “That f*ck-wit was lucky to plant what he did. He’s not even as clever as the semi-smart ones he stuck in Ebrahimi’s bag and coat. Do you want me to activate the last one and try to get a fix on where Nagpal and Ebrahimi might be?”
Greere looked across at him, and reached up with one hand to imperiously push his slick black parting back into place. “No. I have discussed this matter at length with Sentinel. His view remains that we shouldn’t risk activating the last one for a while. He says it’ll either be there or not. We’re keeping the political pressure on Turkmenistan to make sure the terrorists remain unwelcome there and surprisingly, for all their more usual procrastinations and avoidance activities, the Turkmen are complying very comprehensively. Especially toward the targets’ immediate families.
“Nagpal and his only remaining cell-member can’t risk going home so it’s almost certain that they’ll stick together for a while. Sentinel says there’s no point activating the beacon and risking losing it before we find out where Tin and Mercury are.
“Unless... of course, you’d like to go and get your hands properly dirty again...?” Greere raised his little caterpillar eyebrows over the partition.
Ellard privately agreed with Sentinel’s assessment, but he also didn’t like the inferences that this little worm of a man was making. Greere might be his superior but Ellard had a career history that made Greere’s look like he’d been a f*cking wet-nurse all his life. Ellard’s hands had already been very dirty indeed. “I’m hearing a lot of what Sentinel thinks...,” he ventured tauntingly, and was pleased to see his superiors eyebrows clenching above his little pug nose.
Greere turned to his terminal and started typing. “I think he’s right for once,” he said to his keyboard. “Deuce?”
“Yes, sir.” Ellard decided he’d better play things a bit more respectfully for a while. His secret stash wasn’t quite big enough to risk falling out with his boss.
“I’m feeling thirsty... Fancy a coffee?”
His boss going for coffee? Surprised at this unexpected offer, Ellard inched his head up slightly so he could see over the partition. “Sounds good,” he replied carefully.
Greere glanced across at him. “Good. I’ll have an extra shot latte with three sugars,” he snapped. “And get a f*cking move on.”
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
He has a moped here; a beaten up, ancient, old scooter. It’s nothing at all like the thoroughbred racing machine we straddled whilst we were catapulting ourselves around Budapest.
For the last few days we’ve taken to riding it down to the sea.
It’s not far.
As usual, he’s jabbering away in front of me and pointing out all sorts of growing, creeping or flying creatures and fauna. His voice is soothing to listen to. Then a kamikaze fly finds its way into his always-open gob and suddenly he’s swearing, coughing and spitting the rogue beast out to one side in a stream of bug-riddled phlegm.
I try not to laugh, but can’t contain it.
He can feel me shuddering behind him as I fight my mirth-driven convulsions, and this triggers another cursive tirade, and another captured fly, and another seriously meaty globule flying past my ear, and now he’s laughing as well and the bike is weaving from side to side across the dusty trackway...
We continue down the hill and the track dwindles rapidly into a narrow pathway. Jack steers us, with confident familiarity, between the crowding undergrowth and shrubs, along this strip of battered weeds. The pathway is, at times, inches wide. A barely passable trail trampled flat by this bike and perhaps the occasional meandering predator or goat. It leads us down to a small and pleasant, completely isolated crescent of deserted beach – part gravel and then soft sand – which spreads, gently shelving, into the almost flat-calm waters of the bay. The waters, I know, are crystal-clear and packed full of hermit crabs, shrimp, tiny fish, urchins and the occasional baby jellyfish.
Bursting from the undergrowth, and out onto the edge of this oasis, Jack quickly parks the bike. Then we leap off, tear off and toss aside our already scant clothing, and race each other down into the cool waters...
Well, he races, buttocks pumping like pistons in front of me, and I half-stagger along behind him enjoying the view.
“YEAH!” he roars, thrusting both hands into the air like he’s won the one hundred metre sprint finals. “Winner!” he spins around, pointing vigorously at his sea-spray glistened chest. “Loser!” both of his arms extend, hands held in ‘L’ shapes, toward me.
Then he spins on the spot and dives headlong into the cool refreshing waters.
He can be so childish sometimes.
~~~~~
The Caspian Sea
Sergei tugged industriously on the nets as he hauled their heavy burden on board. He could feel the strain of recent, regular exercise across his chest and biceps.
“You should join us,” the fishing boat captain shouted across to him in Russian. He was a tall man; wildly raven-haired and heavily bearded. “I won’t keep asking you. Men who know how to work the nets are hard to find.”
Sergei huffed modestly. He glanced to where Nagpal was hanging limply over the railings at the back of the rolling ship.
The captain saw his glance. “Lazy, good-for-nothings,” he continued pointedly. “They’re easy to find. Seriously, you should think about it.”
Sergei was thinking about it.
Murat Nagpal had remained highly volatile, ever since they had left Constanta. One second he was entirely lucid and rational, seemingly tolerant of Sergei’s presence. The next he was a ball of pent-up fury, raging and shouting. The younger man was losing count of the amount of times Nagpal had threatened him.
They had taken a ferry across the Black Sea to Anapa, then a rental car across land to Makhachkala, where they had found this fishing vessel preparing for its voyage into the Southern Caspian. Nagpal had offered the captain a substantial cash bonus if he would be prepared to make a short detour. The captain, short of crew, had accepted, providing Sergei could work.
Sergei could work. He’d learned much during his elongated journey across the Baltic and, if he was honest with himself, he was enjoying being part of a ship’s crew again. This was the kind of camaraderie he’d expected as part of the whole ‘Independent Khandastan’ adventure but there had been no feeling of security, confidence or trust when surrounded by thugs and madmen like Hossein, Sikand and Nagpal. He had been a fool. He knew this, and he knew it had cost his brother his life.
Still, the last remaining madman had promised they were going home.
“It will be a long and difficult journey,” Nagpal had said as they strode toward the docks, back in Constanta. “The final chapter of this great and heroic story.”
Sergei hawked up the phlegm, that was rising in his mouth at the memory of his leader’s endless rhetoric, and spat forcefully over the side. Then, pulling the last of the nets clear of the water, he turned back to the captain. “I must go home to see my family first,” he said, thrusting the bundle of dripping hemp down onto the wet decking. “If it’s okay, I will come and find you afterwards,” he added hopefully.
The burly captain stepped close to him, as they readied themselves to tackle the haul of fish, and reached out to put one arm around Sergei’s broad shoulders like a father welcoming home a prodigal son. It was the briefest of masculine contact, and the simplest of hugs, but it spawned the first feeling of happiness that Sergei had felt for months. “I look forward to it, Youngster,” the captain pronounced and, together, they set to work on the catch.
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
I lounge, enjoying the warm kiss of mid-afternoon spring sunshine, perched almost comfortably on the abandoned tractor tyre that he uses as a beach sofa. He is lying nearby, face down on his towel, with a floppy cloth hat draped over his head, snoring like a badly tuned diesel engine.
The boat is moored off shore. Jack has explained that it was our taxi, and carried us first along the shoreline of the Black Sea, then through the narrow straights straddled by the metropolis of Istanbul, then along the coast of nearby Turkey and then, finally, out to sea for the short hop over to Lesvos itself. It’s not the sturdiest of craft and appears to attract shouts of, what sound to me like, lighthearted derision from the various local fishing boat captains but Jack just smiles, and waves at them, when they call out. Personally, I think he’s quietly relieved it made the journey safely.
The boat clunks lazily against the orange plastic float of its swing mooring. This gentle thumping is the only noise in otherwise blissful silence – if you ignore the squawking of the birds, the splashes of jumping fish, the buzzing insects and the purring of my partner. Its tethers loosely hold it so that it drifts back and forward, not quite restrained, not quite able to meander off into the distance... ‘A bit like me,’ I muse to myself. I am also caught up amongst forces stronger that I truly understand, tethered temporarily to a homespun anchorage, burdened with momentarily latent duty and deigned to fulfil a purpose not of my own volition...
The snoring from beside me ends abruptly with a loud snort, disturbing my meditations, so I glance across to see the floppy hat thrusting itself upwards.
“You feeling up to a trip into the village tonight?” he asks as if he’s never been asleep. “My mates want to know when they’re going to get to meet you.”
I pause for a second before nodding. I’m not sure why, but I feel strangely nervous about it.
~~~~~
London
Greere waited patiently, flicking disinterestedly through a well-thumbed broadsheet, as he sat in one of the large room’s many wing-backed, light-tan, leather armchairs. He was surrounded by dark, polished-oak panelling and musty furniture. Late afternoon sunlight, tinted almost orange by thick leaded glass, streamed diagonally across him as a wide swathe of dusty brightness from two huge swooping bay windows.
“Crispin?”
He looked up casually at the sound of the familiar voice. “Hello Edward,” he said. “I’m glad you could find me a moment in your hectic schedules.”
The other man nodded curtly. He was wearing a smart business suit but Greere could tell he was putting a little weight on. He was also going prematurely grey, around his thinning temples. Probably from the stress of his job.
“Take a seat,” said Greere. “I won’t keep you long.”
The man pulled a second chair closer and sat down carefully. “I haven’t been in here for a long time,” he observed.
“It hasn’t changed,” said Greere. “As an old-boy’s club, it likes to stick to tradition. Like its sponsor, our dearly beloved school, does.”
The man nodded. “What do you want, Crispin?” he asked curtly.
Greere smiled. “History, eh? Hard to leave behind, don’t you think?”
The man’s expression hardened, though Greere could sense he was nervous. “That was all a very long time ago,” the man said coldly.
Greere lounged back comfortably. “Some memories are more engrained than others. Particularly the unpleasant ones....” Greere let his words hang unfinished.
The man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” he asked, his face hardening even further.
Greere sat forwards quickly. “Not at all!” he insisted, and pretended to laugh lightheartedly. “We both know, only too well, how to keep secrets... Don’t we?”
The man relaxed slightly, and forced a small well-practiced smile onto his face. “We do,” he said carefully.
“Like the secrets I’m keeping for you, right now,” Greere continued. “Who would have thought that one of your ‘amusements’, from schooldays, would be helping to clean up a terrible mess?” The man stiffened in front of him. “Would be performing a role of national importance? Just as you, elevated as you are, perform your own national role. Who would have imagined that I would be successfully managing to deliver results, despite the pointless barriers and restrictions levied by my own superiors?”
“I don’t get involved with the Agencies,” the man said. “I won’t. I know you’re involved in one of them, but they’re outside of my jurisdiction.”
“I’m not asking for that.”
“Then what do you want, Crispin?”
“Victoria,” Greere replied cryptically. “A little cleanup has been asked for, apparently.”
The man frowned, glancing around to check that no-one was in earshot. “You?” he asked. “Personally?”
Greere nodded. “Me. Personally. But, of course, who will ever know?”
The man shook his head. “That is a dangerous task. I’m surprised.”
Greere leaned toward him. “When I deliver, I want you to know it was me. I want you to think about this little chat. I want you to think about our personal history. I know that the public, the Agencies, the politicians, they all want the same thing – results. You, your role, your profile – you need the same thing. But what you also need, immediately around you, are people you can trust. Like, for instance, a man who has proven, for decades, that he can deliver and that he can keep silent.” He leaned even further forward. “All I want, is for you to know it was me, and to make sure I’m recognised for my efforts, and for you to help ensure that I’m best placed to continue to support you in the future.”
Greere sat back.
The man sat silent for a second, then stood and smoothed his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said carefully.
Greere nodded again. “I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Prime Minister,” he said with a wry smile. “And, as nice as it is to see you again, I hope you don’t mind me saying, that I hope it’ll be a very long time before we might need to talk about such matters again.”
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
I shave for the occasion. Make myself presentable. It has been a long time since I’ve had a good shave. Whilst I am lucky, and my hair doesn’t grow quickly, it’s still taken a while, and a good few passes of his borrowed razor to clear my stubble. I had forgotten how good it feels to be smooth and clean and I spend a few moments running my hands over my skin; enjoying a second or two of selfish luxury after my self-imposed purgatory.
He startles me, thrusting his head around the open bathroom door. “Are you ready yet?” he grumbles, but lingers there for a little while longer than he needs to. I bend down and snatch up my towel, from where it’s strewn haphazardly on the tiles, and sidle past him into the bedroom to find some clothes.
It takes about ten minutes for us, and the scooter, to trundle along the rough tarmac country lanes into the nearby town and tourist village of Skala Kallonis. It comprises a small harbour and fishing community surrounded by a handful of peripherally placed, medium sized, hotels which plunge a steady stream of, initially culture shocked, tourists headlong into the heart of Greek rural life. Once acclimatised, and at the end of what is always too few days, these same visitors will regularly discover that it’s a difficult place to pack up and leave behind.
We are sitting in the square. Next to the silent, circular concrete, fountain which hasn’t worked for as long as anyone can remember. Its slightly elevated circumference provides little more than an entertaining perch for the herds of local kids, all armed with their various handheld games consoles or mobile phones.
Jack seems to know everyone here and jabbers away in Greek with his hands and muscular arms flying around in all directions. He looks so comfortable, so relaxed.
I am so comfortable too.
The bar’s owner – Yanni Nomikos, an OCD, meticulous, wannabe-industrialist friend of Jack’s – tends to our wishes whilst perpetually nudging his carefully coordinated tables and sofas an inch or two, to the left or right, to make sure they look ‘just right’. He also supplies us with a regular stream of punctuating Tequila shots, ice-cold, from his personal fridge out back. Khristos, Yanni’s barman and helper, buzzes around like a demon possessed and promises to bring me wild herbs he has collected from the mountains. Maria, Yanni’s pet bulldog, chases away all lustful suitors, and motorbikes, and cats, who encroach on her personal feeding zone. Yanni shakes his head at her in mock frustration, particularly when she sits with her best, albeit fight-damaged, begging eyes, and gruesome Shrek-like underbite at my feet. For such an ugly fighter, she’s a soft touch really, and appears to enjoy my fussing and the occasional snack I sneak down to her. Doubtless these treats only add slightly to her already paunchy physique.
The bar is called Argo.
We spend far too long there.
~~~~~
Northern Iran, near the Turkmenistan Border
Nagpal watched carefully as Ebrahimi heaved himself to his feet and pulled his rucksack back onto his shoulders. His interest in this man, and the need to keep him alive, continued to dwindle on a daily basis, but even so, for the time being, Nagpal knew he was still better off having him around. Two guns were better than one. He needed to ensure that he had more friends around him before he could do anything about the fool who had betrayed his unit. Before he could do anything about the fool who had, somehow, let himself get tagged by the infidels.
Ebrahimi strode toward him. “Why here?” the young man asked again, forcefully. It was about the tenth time he’d asked this question since they’d disembarked two hours ago. “Why not fifty kilometres north of here? Why are we in Iran when our homeland is just over there?” Ebrahimi waved an arm angrily northwards.
One of Nagpal’s cellphones bleeped and he pulled it out. “Come on,” he said simply. “You will find out.”
They hiked inland at a fast pace.
“We need to move quickly,” Nagpal instructed.
In front of them hard-baked brown clay spread for miles, punctuated by occasional round, wattling field huts. This forsaken tract of land was a flat and barren, almost completely abandoned wilderness which stretched north, from the edge of the irrigated plains surrounding the Iranian city of Aq Qala, into the deserts of Southwest Turkmenistan.
Nagpal paused. In the distance he could hear the sound of approaching engines. “Come on,” he insisted, and they hurried forwards.
Plumes of dusty sand rose ahead of them forming an untidy cloud which dragged itself noisily across the otherwise featureless landscape. As the dust started to settle an object began to appear in silhouette amongst the billowing particles.
“A plane?” exclaimed the panting man beside him.
“Yes, Sergei,” Nagpal announced triumphantly, pushing himself into a faster jogging pace. “A plane... You see, we still have friends. Though not many. You might want to wander into our homeland, and straight into the arms of our corrupted government. If so, feel FREE!” He stopped suddenly and wheeled on the youngster. “Feel free to go...! Go! Go on RUN! There’s no real border. Take yourself into their arms. How long do you think it will take them to find you? A day? A week? How many of your precious family will they have to drag off, and rape, or murder before you hand yourself in? Before you find yourself at the end of a torturer’s blade, spitting and pissing blood from every orifice, betraying every last connection we have...!”
He paused but Sergei was shocked-silent.
“WELL?” he demanded. “What are you waiting for?”
“You said we were going home...,” Sergei whispered, the fight had once again drained out of him.
Nagpal stepped closer to the other man, and leant in toward him. “I also said it would be a long and arduous journey,” he muttered softly. “You will get to your promised destination. You will get to return to the place where all of your ancestors reside. Soon enough. I promise you that.”
Sergei stared soundlessly at him and Nagpal couldn’t help but wonder why the fool clung to such pointless and romantic fantasies. He would make sure he found himself more properly trained soldiers for the next phase of his campaign. These Ebrahimi children had proven only to be a burden.
“Come on,” he continued and started moving again. “My friend cannot be caught here. He has to get back to his own homeland.” Nagpal pointed in front of him, eastwards, beyond the aircraft’s continuing prop-driven dust clouds. “We will be within sight of home where we’re going. We will have access to friends and allies. We will be able to plan and organise for the proper recognition of our glorious actions, for the creation of our deserved nation state and, as you so passionately yearn after, for a safe and triumphant return.”
‘Besides,’ he thought to himself, ‘I cannot let you be caught, Sergei. You know far too much about my network for me to ever allow that to happen.’
~~~~~