Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  Plucking up his courage, and after one more cigarette, he’d marched from his room to the rather more spacious one occupied by Colonel Komarov.

  His daughter’s godfather had been sitting behind his desk, his round face in profile, staring through the window at the red-brown leaves of a large horse-chestnut tree on the grass outside.

  ‘Comrade Colonel!’ Pushkin had stood to attention with the Militsia report in his fist.

  Komarov had swung round to face him, his normally warm, soft features looking drawn and tired, his eyes drained of life.

  ‘I wish to report my concerns about the case of—’

  ‘A tragic accident, Misha.’ Komarov had cut him off sharply.

  ‘But I wish to lodge a formal—’

  ‘No, Misha. You do not.’ The eyes had chilled, but behind their ice was fear. ‘Accidents are events that none of us can do anything about. None of us, Misha. Remember that. For your sake. For my sake. And for the sake of my god-daughter, whose life I treasure very dearly.’

  At the mention of Nadya, Pushkin’s determination had faltered, but only for a moment.

  ‘It is my duty to tell you, comrade Colonel, that I now have firm evidence that the spares for the VR-6—’

  ‘Your duty, Major Pushkin, is to obey my orders!’ Komarov had been white-faced with anger and fear. ‘For God’s sake, leave that matter alone, Misha. Return to your desk now and involve yourself in routine things. Do not give one more thought to the VR-6 business. Forget it. Because there is nothing to be done. I am telling you, Misha. Nothing can be done.’

  There was something, however. And Pushkin was now doing it.

  He parked the Zaporizhzhia on a patch of waste ground opposite the bleak, open platform that served as a railway station for the small town of Magerov. His appointment with General Major Orlov at the headquarters of the Odessa Military District was for midday but he wanted to be in the city in good time to leave nothing to chance.

  The armed forces of Ukraine had become sick beasts since independence from Russia. Undernourished and with their post Cold War roles still undefined, corruption and opportunism had eaten away at the moral fibre of their officers. Giving in to that corruption could only make matters worse. Pushkin knew he had to make a stand. It was his duty to do so.

  Going over the head of his commanding officer and friend had a secondary purpose too. Oleg Andrey’evich Komarov had become the Mafiya’s tool, their prisoner.

  General Orlov, he hoped, might have the power to free him from that grip.

  23

  14.30 hrs

  Headquarters of the Odessa Military District

  PUSHKIN STARED BLANKLY at the high, bare walls of the waiting room on the ground floor of the Odessa headquarters, his broad-brimmed cap on his knees. The pale-green room was in need of fresh paint, but it was light, with a large window overlooking an internal courtyard where rain fell in a steady drizzle. He’d been kept sitting on a metal-framed chair for more than two hours, while a stream of other visitors came and went. He’d begun to feel like a disobedient schoolchild left to sweat before his punishment, rather than an officer upholding the highest standards of the service.

  At last a dark-haired woman in her late thirties appeared in the waiting room doorway and smiled at him. She wore a silky apricot blouse and a pleated skirt. He stood up and she apologised for the long wait, saying the General had been called away but was now back. Pushkin followed her into the lobby. They passed through a security turnstile and up two flights of stairs to the long, wide corridor where the generals had their offices.

  The Odessa Military District was under the overall command of a General Colonel, an old tank commander reputed to be in despair at the decline of the army he’d served for thirty years. Beneath him were half a dozen generals major acting as department heads.

  The secretary knocked at a pair of heavy doors decorated with elaborate mouldings. The name on a small engraved panel read General Major N. M. Orlov. Pushkin was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. General Orlov was Colonel Komarov’s direct superior, responsible for military supply. He’d met him only twice before, once on his appointment to the district and again during an inspection at the Magerov base three months ago.

  A short, dark man with a brooding, Napoleonic air about him, Orlov waved him to a chair. He wore his uniform jacket, the lapels decorated with the insignia of special forces, his left breast marked by three lines of campaign ribbons. Orlov had distinguished himself in Afghanistan. His hands rested on a broad blotter where he’d scribbled notes about previous meetings. At the front edge of the desk was a gilded pen stand.

  ‘Comrade Major. I must say right away that the terms under which you requested this meeting are extremely serious,’ Orlov began, looking at Pushkin over the rim of a pair of half-moon reading glasses. ‘I understand you’ve come here to make allegations against your commanding officer, is that correct?’

  Orlov’s bluntness threw him momentarily.

  ‘Comrade General. I . . . well it’s not exactly against. More in support, I would say. I mean, what I have to say to you, General, is that I have evidence that a substantial quantity of military equipment stored at Magerov—’

  ‘Mikhail Ivanovich,’ Orlov cut in, his voice a little softer. ‘Before you make your allegations, which could have very serious consequences for many people, not least yourself, let me ask you this: have you really thought about what you’re doing? It is a very serious step you’re taking. Suppose your allegations were to prove unfounded. Your career – it would be over. You would have to resign. And without a pension worth anything. Your family . . . Lena, Nadya. Have you thought about them?’

  A chill descended like dew. The General had done his homework.

  But he couldn’t stop now.

  ‘Believe me comrade General, I have thought about it. The decision has been a painful one for me. Very painful.’

  ‘Of course. Oleg Andrey’evich is your daughter’s godfather.’ Orlov pursed his mouth to emphasise the significance of this. ‘You and he, you have kym. The bond, it’s like family. And yet you are prepared to break it?’

  The homework again. A voice at the back of Pushkin’s mind told him to give up now. To back off. To shut up. To slink away to his desk at Magerov and carry on as if nothing had happened. But he couldn’t. There was too much at stake.

  ‘Comrade General, I believe a very serious crime has been committed and that—’

  ‘Crime! Yes. It’s all around us. We are led by criminals, Mikhail Ivanovich.’ Orlov leaned forward on the desk as if imparting a confidence. ‘In the government – in the army even, according to some. We all know it. Ukraine has become a criminal state.’

  ‘But you’re surely not saying we should accept it, General?’

  ‘Accept? The choice is hardly ours, I think.’

  ‘But comrade General, the crime that I’m talking about,’ Pushkin continued, his confidence returning, ‘I believe it could have very serious consequences outside Ukraine as well as within the army. This is why I have to report it, why I’ve had to ignore all matters of personal loyalty.’

  The General sat back, his eyes as hard as coal.

  ‘Well then, if your mind is made up. What is it you have to tell me, Mikhail Ivanovich?’

  Pushkin began to talk. The General listened, poker-faced. When Pushkin had finished Orlov drummed his fingers on his blotter.

  ‘You know exactly where these Yastreyo technical parts were taken?’ he queried warily.

  ‘No, comrade General. But with the resources you could call on it shouldn’t be too—’

  ‘These suspicions of yours,’ he cut in gruffly. ‘Who else have you told about them?’

  ‘Nobody, General. Only Colonel Komarov.’

  ‘Your wife knows?’

  ‘No. I never discuss duty matters with Lena.’

  ‘Quite correct. Quite correct.’

  Elbows on the desk, Orlov leaned forward, pressing his hands together as if
in prayer. He touched his finger tips against his lips.

  ‘And you must not discuss it with anybody else. You were quite right to tell me about what you’d uncovered. Absolutely right. You’ve done your duty, Mikhail Ivanovich. You have upheld the honour of the army of Ukraine. I congratulate you on your determination and your strength. You are personally an honourable man.’

  He paused, touching his fingers to his lips again as if he had a caveat to his praise. Then he seemed to think better of it.

  ‘And you can be assured that I will take action as a result of what you’ve told me. I most certainly will.’

  Pushkin allowed himself a smile of relief, a feeling, however, that was to be more short-lived than he could have ever imagined.

  ‘At this stage, Major, there is nothing more you need to do. But the matter is extremely sensitive. There could be others involved. It would be dangerous to alert them to what you’ve uncovered. So it is better you put nothing in writing. Have you by any chance already . . .?’

  ‘No. I thought it best to speak to you first before writing my formal report.’ He glowed with pride that the matter was being treated with such seriousness.

  ‘Good. Good. In a week or two I may ask you to make a written statement, but do nothing until I tell you. I will contact you directly, in due course. In the meantime I will arrange an immediate transfer for you to another unit.’

  Pushkin froze. That hadn’t been his plan. To leave the apartment they’d been so lucky to get. To be shunted to some remoter part of the country where they might have to share a kommunalka.

  ‘Comrade General, I don’t . . .’ he spluttered.

  ‘But of course. It’s impossible for you to remain at Magerov,’ Orlov cut in. ‘Regulations – if you make allegations against your commanding officer, you have to be relocated. For your sake and for the sake of Colonel Komarov, whose version of events I must also hear. He may perhaps have an explanation for all this which he may give to me, but which he didn’t think appropriate for your ears. Your relationship with a commander – it has to be based on trust. That trust has broken down, has it not?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Quite. Now, leave everything to me from this point on. You understand me? You have done your duty, for which the army will undoubtedly show its gratitude in time – assuming your allegations are proven. But you must keep silent from now on. That’s the most important thing. Loose talk could destroy the detailed investigation which I shall now have to set in motion. The army needed your voice to reveal this crime. Now it needs your silence so the criminals can be uncovered and dealt with.’

  ‘Yes, comrade General. I understand. You can rely on me.’

  ‘I’m sure I can. I’m sure I can.’

  The meeting was over. Pushkin stood to leave. General Orlov stood too. The two men were the same height. They shook hands.

  ‘Goodbye, Mikhail Ivanovich.’

  The secretary in the apricot blouse escorted Pushkin from the building.

  As he walked slowly back to the railway station, Pushkin felt a great weight gone from his shoulders. He was infused by a new lightness of spirit. The painful delving into his conscience had produced the right result. He’d done his duty and been rewarded by the compliments of the General.

  But the feeling of satisfaction was a bitter one. He’d betrayed a friend. For that, he would never be forgiven. By Oleg Andrey’evich Komarov or by himself.

  The cloud blowing in off the Black Sea had thickened. The air was warm, almost muggy. No rain now, but Pushkin sensed it might thunder later. Traffic had built up to its end-of-working-day congestion, dilapidated buses vying for space with lines of Volgas and Zhigulis, and the sleeker, newer products from Germany and Japan.

  He reached the end of a small park surrounding a statue of Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian hero poet, and crossed a broad avenue towards the gothic bulk of the railway station. Halfway across he paused to let a tram pass, its steel mass setting the ground vibrating beneath his feet. He checked his watch. Ten minutes past four. The elektrychky to Magerov didn’t leave for another hour. He would ring Lena, who would be expecting him home before long.

  He crossed the station yard, dodging taxis and private cars depositing passengers laden with overstuffed bags. Up the steps into the booking hall, he felt in his pocket for a telephone token. A line of phones to his right. The first three he tried didn’t work, but with the fourth there was a tone. He dropped in the token and dialled. Lena answered just seconds after the number rang out.

  ‘Misha?’

  He’d not spoken a word but she had already guessed it was him.

  ‘Yes. I’m in Odess—’

  ‘Misha! Thank God!’ she interrupted, her voice cracking. ‘Misha, Misha . . .’

  Pushkin felt ice slide down his spine.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  He heard Lena trying to stifle her sobs.

  ‘Nadya . . .’ she gasped.

  The ice encased him, freezing his voice.

  ‘What’s happened,’ he gulped eventually. ‘What’s happened?’ His voice rose to a shout. A fat woman on the next phone turned to look, her broad peasant face wrinkled with alarm.

  ‘An accident.’ Lena’s voice was reedy and thin.

  Pushkin’s throat cracked dry. The warnings – he’d heard them and ignored them. He felt himself sliding down, down.

  24

  BY THE TIME the delayed elektrychky dropped him at Magerov it was getting dark. On the phone Lena had told him little about the incident, except that it had happened while Nadya had been waiting for the bus home from school. The girl was hurt, but all right, she’d said. And Lena was scared. Petrified. Begging him to get home as soon as he could.

  Half-walking, half-running from the platform, he propelled himself across the road to the waste ground where he’d left the car. But he couldn’t see it. In the spot where he’d left it was an abandoned wreck which some vandal had sprayed with red graffiti. He stopped, staring angrily at the other cars, demanding to know why it was his that had been stolen. Then his heart sank. The vandalised machine, he realised, was a Zaporizhzhia. And beneath the red swirls of paint it was the same colour as his car.

  It was his. The ice ran down his spine again. Devastated by the desecration of his most expensive possession, he examined it from one end to the other. This was no act of random hooliganism. Such things didn’t happen in a dump like Magerov.

  ‘Sons of whores!’

  Bitter tears came to his eyes. Tears of indignation and of fear. He glanced round, imagining he was being watched. Then he looked again at his car, touching the red swirls that had defaced it. Hard lacquer. Bone dry. Done soon after he’d parked there. As a warning. A warning from the criminals who’d murdered driver Reznik and corrupted Oleg Komarov.

  The paintwork was ruined but no other damage was visible. He unlocked the door and sat in the driving seat. Paint on the windscreen too, but he could see past it. He started the engine. It worked. So did the lights. He crunched into first and swung the car onto the road, grateful that the dusk would help conceal his shame.

  At the gates to the base a guard held up the flat of his hand and shook his head, not recognising the occupant. Pushkin opened the door and leaned out. When the guard saw him he saluted and reached with consternation for Pushkin’s papers.

  ‘Hooligani,’ Pushkin explained.

  ‘And the Militsia will do nothing, comrade Major,’ the guard sympathised, handing Pushkin back his pass. ‘They should round them all up and send them in here. I’d soon sort them out.’

  Pushkin drove up the short avenue of pollarded plane trees that led to the administration building. At the junction in front of it he turned right, away from the pools of light cast by the few concrete standards that had working bulbs and swung the car onto the dark square of cracked tarmac in front of the officer accommodation blocks.

  He switched everything off, then looked up anxiously. Lights were on in both rooms of
his flat. Had Nadya been seen by a doctor? At the Magerov base there was only a first-aider. He locked the car door and hurried towards the entrance to the apartments.

  Suddenly he heard something. The click of a cigarette lighter to his right. His heart turned over. He felt the presence of death. Had they come for him now? Here within the secure perimeter of the base? Another click, then a small flame visible in the midst of a clump of birch trees that had been planted to mark Independence Day.

  ‘Misha!’ Komarov’s voice. ‘Over here.’

  No, he thought. The Colonel had every right to want to kill him after what he’d just done in Odessa. He turned, meaning to run for the apartments, but his legs felt rooted. Running away had always been hard for him. He was going to have to confront his Colonel sooner or later, he decided, so he walked over to the trees, bracing himself for whatever might come.

  ‘Comrade Colonel,’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘What . . . what’re you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to save your life, you idiot,’ Komarov hissed. ‘Though God knows why after what you’ve done in Odessa this afternoon.’

  What you’ve done . . . He knew already. Knew where he’d been, whom he’d spoken to.

  ‘You’ve had me followed,’ he accused.

  ‘Huh!’ Komarov exclaimed dismissively. ‘You think I have need for that? You are so naive, Misha.’ His voice was saw-edged with emotion. ‘You don’t understand, do you? You simply do not understand.’

  ‘I understand well enough, Oleg Andrey’evich,’ Pushkin protested feebly. ‘I understand what’s right and what’s wrong.’

  In the darkness he saw Komarov shake his head with a heavy sadness.