Hard Target tz-1

by James Rouch

  There was room to admit them only in single file, and frequent twists and turns made their previous route as good as an autobahn by comparison. Hyde raised his hand and they stopped before a rickety hut that was only kept upright by its neighbours. He clenched his fist to rap at the thin wood frame to which the canvas door was fastened, but didn’t. Instead he took his knife and, motioning the others to silence, proceeded to cut an opening in the thick fabric. As he cut the third side of a square a man-sized opening appeared and the material curled down. Stepping into the gloomy interior he signalled the others to follow.

  The filthy face and grime-smeared hands, that were all that was visible of the curled form beneath the pile of rags and paper cement bags on the sagging camp bed, blurred into rapid action with an ugly snarl.

  Eyes only half accustomed to the gloom made it difficult for Hyde to accurately intercept the pistol produced from beneath the sacking, but the toe of his boot just caught it, and spun it to a far corner.

  A howl of rage came from the figure, and then a brief torrent of hate-filled German, before Libby pounced and shoved a wad of cloth into the gaping mouth.

  ‘Shut up, you old cow.’ With the palm of his hand the sergeant shoved the woman back down on the bed from which she’d half-risen. He pinned her flailing arms to her side and her struggles ceased, but not her muted attempts to tell the intruders what she thought of them and their methods.

  ‘Take it easy, Sergeant. If you reckon she can tell us something, we need her cooperation. Breaking her arms won’t get it. Who is she?’ There was nothing to give Revell any hint that this was other than just one of the thousands of shelters that made up the camp: or that the old woman was any different from the specimen who’d attempted to claw him shortly before, or any of the hundreds more of her kind who must inhabit the place.

  ‘This is Old Mother Knoke. She’s just about the most poisonous old witch in the whole of the Zone.’ Shred at a time, Hyde pulled out the gag.

  As the last piece was removed she opened her toothless mouth, then caught sight of the Makarov 9mm automatic that Libby had retrieved from the corner and was now training on her. Instead of shouting, she began a venom filled monotone of guttural invective.

  ‘In English, you nasty old bitch, in English.’ At the words from Hyde she stopped and put her head on one side, like a bird considering the risks before tentatively approaching what could either be a rare tasty morsel or a trap. Her eyes flickered from Hyde to Libby, and then to Revell, oh whom they lingered longer, before coming to rest on the sergeant again.

  ‘I know you, Faceless.’ The lank white hair bobbed up and down as she nodded her recognition. ‘Have they given up trying to repair you, will they not let you go home like that?’ Mother Knoke gave a dry cackle at her own humour, while her sharp grey eyes strayed once more towards the American officer. ‘Whatever you want it will cost you,’ again the sly glance at Revell, ‘a lot.’

  ‘You just worry about the payment you’ll get if you don’t supply what we want.’

  Again there was the dry rustling laugh as the old woman digested Libby’s threat. ‘A shot will bring the Russians. There is a post not fifty metres from here.’ The lop-sided leer with which she concluded the sentence disappeared, as Libby gathered up a handful of mixed cloths and wadded them about the barrel of the pistol.

  Feeling a light tap on his shoulder Hyde turned to see Revell’s beckoning finger, and went with him to a corner.

  ‘Sergeant, I’ve gone along with this so far, but will you tell me just what the hell you’re up to with this smelly old dame? Just how is she going to help us?’

  Hyde checked over his shoulder and saw that Libby and Mother Knoke were still frozen in the same tableau, the swaddled tip of the gun barrel only an inch from the woman’s temple.

  ‘You know what it’s like in the camps, Major. To survive everyone has to corner some sort of business. Mother Knoke is too wrinkled to sell herself, too lazy to work, so she’s developed to a fine art and a decent, business what most old women do in a small way and never give a thought to, she’s a gossip. There’s nothing happens around here she doesn’t know about. She knows who comes, who goes, who dies. That’s now she lives. If you want to trace a member of your family or find out who’s paying the best price for young virgins, or who can get a message out to the West – then you ask Mother Knoke.’

  ‘What’s it going to cost us?’ Much as Revell felt revulsion at being involved in the transaction, there was a practical side in which he had to take an interest. ‘We’re travelling light, apart from our weapons and ammunition, and it appears the old vulture has ways of getting those for herself.’

  ‘A lot of them in the camps have got guns. After every battle they’re there for the taking. Now and again the Reds have a sweep to try and collar them all, like we do with the camps near us, but these are big places… still I suppose we might want to use the grubby hag again, so we’d better sweeten the pill.’ From a capacious pocket Hyde took out a plastic bag that bulged with a selection of K-rations.

  ‘These are for you, if…’ Hyde had to snatch the bag out of reach as Mother Knoke, ignoring the pistol trained on her, lunged forward to try and secure the bait, ‘… if you’ll tell us all you know about a new Soviet unit operating somewhere around here. The 97th Technical Support Battalion.’

  Conflict combined with greed and frustration chased across Knoke’s dirt-ingrained features. ‘I not know about army, only refugees.’ Her hands opened and closed spasmodically as though she longed to snatch the food.

  Libby ostentatiously checked the safety catch was off on the pistol, and that a round was chambered, then brought it back to bear on his target.

  Again Hyde tantalisingly dangled the powerful persuader. ‘Don’t give me that. You’re like a bloody Hoover, you suck up and store every whisper, you know something.’

  Still the flexing fingers displayed just how much Mother Knoke wanted what was so temptingly offered. There was a, note of anguish in her voice as she saw the chance of obtaining the food slipping away. ‘I do not know, if I did…’ She had eyes now only for the bag. ‘I only know about camp.’

  At random, Hyde extracted a cube of anonymous food from the cache and tossed it to her. He turned to Revell. ‘She doesn’t know anything, not even enough to build a convincing lie around. We might as well do a recce on foot, there’s not much chance we’ll spot anything, but…’

  ‘Hold it a minute. Let me try.’

  A triumphant look, almost of self-congratulation, leapt into the old woman’s face as she caught Revell’s accent for the first time. Her suspicions were confirmed, he was an American. She whined. ‘If I can help… I am ill, I need food… I can help, I want to help.’

  Only a warning prod from Libby stopped her lunging forward to grasp Revell’s hand, as he sat down on an empty five-gallon disinfectant drum beside the bed.

  ‘Have the Russians been doing any building lately, anything? Within the last two or three months.’ He didn’t need to be a brilliant detective to notice the abject disappointment in Mother Knoke’s face as she shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Some holes for guns, trenches, like always; and the new drains… that is all.’

  ‘What drains, where?’

  ‘On the far side, across the camp. They cleared the people out, said they would drain the land, make it healthy, then they would not let them back. They put mines… those who tried to return, to take tools, cement, they died.’

  ‘Show me where this was.’ The major thrust a sketch map of the camp and surrounding country under her nose.

  She fussed with it. ‘I am not good with these.’ Finally a ragged nail stabbed down on a bulge on the east side of the camp. ‘Here, have these.’ Revell took the bag and threw it on to the bed. Mother Knoke grabbed it before it began to slide off the paper sacks and hugged it to her chest.

  ‘American?’ Now cunning joined greed and the other naked emotions that chased across, her face. ‘You have something else, you have l
ots of everything, yes? Not like tight-arse British.’ She shook the bag contemptuously at Hyde, but kept a firm hold on it. Deride it she might, lose it she wouldn’t.

  Getting no hint from Hyde of what was expected, Revell handed over two packs of State Express and what money he had on him, about ninety marks. Mother Knoke didn’t count the notes, but stuffed them with the cigarettes into the plastic bag and hugged the mixed payment to her. ‘You’ve told us everything?’

  Knoke nodded frantically. ‘Yes, yes, everything.’

  ‘Can I have a go now, Sarge?’ Libby pocketed the pistol. ‘Make it quick.’ Hyde had been expecting Libby’s request.

  Not waiting for the officer’s approval, Libby fished out the photograph and thrust it at Knoke. ‘You know her? Helga Brandt, twenty-five, blonde. She is with an old man, her grandfather, Eric Brandt.’ A shrug and averting of her eyes showed Mother Knoke’s total lack of interest. She had obtained all she could from these men, there was nothing more to be gained by being helpful in this other matter.

  The unconcern turned to sheer terror as the bag was wrenched from her and held beyond her reach. Libby’s other hand clenching her around the throat was almost unnoticed, as she struggled to reach the treasures of which she’d so abruptly been deprived.

  In the poor half-light of the hovel’s interior Revell couldn’t see Libby’s face, but he knew the soldier was about to squeeze much harder. He leant over, took up the photo from where it had fallen on to the floor and pushed it in front of the woman, blotting out the lost payment from her sight. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘She is pretty. Perhaps she is at the farm.’ For a reason the major didn’t understand Libby tightened his grip. ‘She wouldn’t be there, she wouldn’t.’ Libby increased the pressure on the scrawny neck still further. ‘She’s not a tart.’ Mother Knoke was fighting for breath. ‘I do not know her, I would tell…’

  ‘That’s enough. Pack it in before you choke her.’ Hyde had to exert a lot of force before he could unlock Libby’s fingers and allow the hag to start breathing once more. He restored the plastic bag to her eager hands. ‘Won’t she squawk the moment we’re gone?’

  ‘Not her, Major, not her. If she yaps to the Reds she runs the risk of us being taken alive and telling who gave information about their activities.’

  ‘We’ll scout this site she’s pinpointed, then.’ Revell folded the map and put it away. This is the first real bit of luck we’ve had.’

  ‘And perhaps it isn’t.’

  Where Libby indicated, silhouetted in the improvised opening stood a squatly powerful figure, the stark outline of a Russian submachine gun aimed from its hip.

  SEVEN

  ‘They’ve been gone more than three hours. Wonder how much longer they’ll be?’ Rinehart began to deal yet another hand of poker. He was determined to win back the money and reputation that Cohen had taken off him.

  Dooley picked up his cards with only casual interest; he rarely won, but it didn’t matter. At every fresh loss he casually scribbled out another marker he had no intention of redeeming. ‘Yeah, well if that were me with the chance to run loose in one of those camps you’d never see me again, except maybe when I came out every month or so to pick up fresh stores from the PX, so I could keep on buying tail at a can of beans a time.’

  ‘You chase tail that’s been eating nothing but beans and you’ll end up getting your cock blown off.’ Cohen looked at his hand and adopted a smug expression. ‘Yeah, especially the way you like going at them.’ With a flourish Rinehart laid down a run, then snorted in disgust and disbelief as Cohen revealed four queens. ‘Fuck this, I’ve had enough. If these weren’t my cards.…’

  Smiling all round, Cohen scuffed the crumpled notes from the bench and into his helmet. ‘Such luck, who’d have thought it. Gentlemen, thank you.’

  ‘Piss off.’ The words came out of habit, Dooley wasn’t really concerned. He’d lost nothing, nothing real, and he wasn’t too bothered about Jango. If the stupid nigger wanted to go chucking his money to the Yid, that was alright with him. He feigned disinterest, but watched carefully as their electronics man sorted the cash out into neat piles and then transferred it to one of the many pockets in his flak jacket. Yeah, it kinda suited him to have all the dough concentrated in the one place. If the little fella bought it, he was going to be the first one to him, and then bonanza, instant riches.

  ‘What’s it like in the camps? I’ve only ever seen them on the news.’

  ‘Rather nasty.’ Clarence sorted through the cleaning rags, looking for one less contaminated by dust and grit than the rest. ‘They mostly resemble a penguin winter colony. Everyone huddled into a great mass, all trying to work their way to the greater comfort and security of the centre, and finding when they get there that it’s all pushing, and shoving and bullying; so they’re really no better off at all.’

  ‘Hey, that’s almost fucking poetic. You sure are cute with words. What’d you do, swallow a dictionary?’ Sprawled along a bench, Dooley took up a disproportionate amount of room, forcing Collins into a small corner at its far end.

  ‘No, but I do have the advantage over you of being able to read on the rare occasions when I need to refer to one.’

  ‘Reckons he’s a real smart arse, don’t he?’ It took Dooley a moment to realise the nature of the insult.

  Cohen didn’t share the big man’s feeling about the sniper. ‘I’m not bothered if he’s got an IQ of minus ten or plus two hundred. He does his job. Why don’t you use some of that hot air you’re always spouting to clean the machine gun?’

  ‘Will you listen to this crud. He’s been in charge for a few shitty hours and suddenly he reckons he’s a three-star general.’ Sitting up and taking out his cigarettes, Dooley offered one to Collins. It was declined, as he’d known it would be. ‘Ain’t you got no vices yet, kid?’

  Collins could feel himself going red, and Burke was no help, grinning, enjoying the American’s discomforting of him. He made a non-committal noise and fussed with the already fastened buckle of a pack.

  ‘You sure are one hell of an aggravating bastard, Dooley.’

  ‘What’d I do now?’ Dooley looked aggrieved at Jango’s accusation. ‘I just asked him if he had any bad habits, can’t I say anything ? You guys cheese me off. I wish I were out there with the Major, screwing my way through the camp. Jesus, I bet he’s having one hell of a good time.’

  The figure took a step inside the doorway, and with a jerk of the cut-down PPsh-41 submachine gun motioned the three NATO soldiers back against the far wall. Four other figures crowded in, a sixth staying on watch at the door.

  Mother Knoke leapt from her bed with astounding agility for her years and threw herself in front of the intruders. Her impassioned torrent of words was swept aside with her as she was roughly pushed back to the bed.

  There had been no chance for Revell or Hyde to draw their pistols. Libby’s hand had closed on the Makarov he’d taken from the woman, but left it where it was in his pocket. Its eight-round magazine was no match for the firepower ranged against them.

  ‘They’re not Commies.’ By the light streaming in through the door, Hyde could make out the ragged civilian dress of the newcomers. ‘Then who the hell are they?’ Revell whispered back. ‘We are Germans. You would call us deserters, from the Soviet-led forces of the German Democratic Republic, from the puppet army of our Communist oppressors – East Germans.’

  To Revell it was not so much the fact that he was unexpectedly addressed in English, but that the speaker was female, that surprised him. Very female judging by the outline he saw against the light. He was given no time to ask questions.

  Without being searched, all three of them, and Mother Knoke, were herded out into the alleyway, and then along it, closely guarded by their escort. The route provided no opportunity for escape.

  They passed the Russian post Mother Knoke had mentioned, a small clearing surrounded by a dense thicket of barbed wire. At its centre stood a low hexagonal concrete structure,
beside which stood a tall guyed mast, a throbbing generator and an unattended cooking fire. It was one of the Soviets’ jamming stations.

  The tight bunched group passed it safely, using a layer of the passing human traffic as cover, the East Germans concealing their truncated submachine guns under drapes of sacking.

  Now the camp was wide awake, and there were many more people about. After the departure of those going in search of food or salvage beyond the camp’s confines, those who were left behind were mostly inclined to simply sit and stare at the ground, or engage in listless conversation in which it seemed they could summon little interest. There was no other way for them to pass the time that hung so heavily.

  There was no other sign of the Russians. Revell wasn’t surprised. With most of the Soviets’ surplus energy devoted to keeping the various satellite components of the Warsaw Pact armies in line, they had few enough men left to do a bare surveillance job on the camps, let alone police them or organise indoctrination of the inmates beyond the occasional use of loudspeakers. Only the settlement’s usefulness as cover for otherwise vulnerable installations prevented the Russians from herding the displaced civilians across the nuclear- and chemical-contaminated territory at the heart of the Zone, to the West.

  To fill the void, the running of the camps fell to the gangs: deserters, criminal elements, the dregs of humanity. They brought not order, but terror, and were capable of matching the Russians themselves when it came to acts of calculated brutality.

  An unexpected halt, a flurry of activity that included much pushing and shoving, and Revell found himself inside a derelict barn. Shell holes in the walls had been covered with scraps of cardboard.

  The moment they were inside, Mother Knoke restarted her impassioned pleading to their captors, going down on her knees before the stocky shaven-headed individual who appeared to be their leader.

  Hyde watched, saw him try to ignore the old woman for a minute, then lose patience and throw her aside. As he did, he saw the plastic bag for the first time.