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In the densely planted wood, Harald Radler sat on the ground with his back resting against a fir tree in the little ‘nest’ he’d managed to make for himself and peered out through the lower branches of the tree line.
The light was fading as the sun gradually edged below the horizon on the other side of the fence and it had begun to chill down. He’d wrapped his overcoat around himself and pulled it over his head for two reasons, one the chill and the other so it would shield his torch when he tried to make contact in the hope that Gally, and whoever he’d enlisted, had managed to work it all out.
He’d liberally rubbed the coat in the ‘leaf litter’ in an attempt to hide his scent and it wasn’t doing any harm because the border guards disappearing around the bend with their dog hadn’t been alerted. Now, he had only to wait for the patrol coming from the opposite direction to safely pass and it was time to make his move.
He could make them out in the distance and considered that by the time they reached his goal the very last of the light would be almost gone. He checked his watch. In half an hour, the Bucharest train would pull into the Gara de Nord rail station to be greeted by a reception committee and they would know he wasn’t on it. Urgent calls would be made, if they hadn’t been done already, and nationwide border and embassy alerts would be put into place. The helicopter he’d seen earlier had kept him wondering and worrying if the game was already up. It hadn’t stayed but it didn’t mean it wouldn’t come back.
His service pistol between his legs, only one 8 round magazine, he’d brought them not for a serious gunfight but simply with the intention to fire several rounds to keep those interfering at bay whilst he blew his own brains out.
He had nothing but ignominy and jail to return to if they didn’t put him against a wall and shoot him themselves. Next to the gun, the insulated cable cutters he’d bought in a backstreet electrical and hardware shop in Prague. The man there had spoken German, although not well, but Harald had received the impression they would give him some protection when he cut through the electric fence and then when he asked if they would be effective on barbed wire the man’s facial expression had told Radler it wasn’t something he’d considered before but he didn’t see why not.
Satisfied with the angles, he lined himself up with the Austrian wood nearest to the border fence. It made sense for them to be there, it was much closer to where he needed to cross; to be in the woods at the far side of the flat, grassed, open field would have been sheer stupidity. If this didn’t work, if no one answered, then he was going anyway; he didn’t have a choice.
The fact the fence was alarmed didn’t matter, he knew from the previous year’s visit there was around 20 seconds delay before the nearest watchtower would be alerted and then they had to locate the exact source of the break. A patrol, even if close by, wouldn’t be able to respond in under a minute. He was hoping he could make a big enough hole in that time to simply launch himself through and was relying on his woollen coat, thrown over the lower portion of the breach, to lessen the effects of any shock. Anyway, despite what the signs said, he’d been told in confidence the charge wasn’t powerful enough to kill. Desperate people do desperate things.
Taking the torch from his jacket, he sent out three flashes of green light and received nothing in return. He waited, then another three.
At the edge of the wood 300 metres away in a foreign country, Gallagher turned in response to the hand on his shoulder. “Alright, Deek,” he whispered, as the CIA agent squatted down beside him, taking the binos and scanning the area.
Suddenly, Gally tapped him on the back. “What’s that over there!”
Deek readjusted. “Where? I can’t see anything.”
“To the left, see? In the tree line. I thought I saw something.”
The American handed the binos back and said, “These aren’t helping anymore in this light. I think I’ve got you. There, just where the ‘finger’ meets the trees?”
“Yeah. Look!” He pointed at the three steady flashes of green light. “It’s got to be him!” Picking the torch up from the ground in front of him, he sent one red flash back to receive another three greens. He replied with three reds. There was no particular arrangement or code, just what both sides felt enough to confirm contact was intended and not accidental. Gally waited but nothing else was returned.
Matthias joined them. “Our guy watching the road further up says there’s a patrol coming from the north. They should be here within five minutes so make sure you can’t be seen and no more talking, they’ve got a dog with them.”
In hushed tones, Gally told him what had just occurred and Matthias crept back to inform the others.
When he’d received the return acknowledgements, the sick feeling that had come to Harald’s stomach dissipated. He put on his coat, stuffed his weapon, cutters and torch into its pockets and slid out of the trees into the drainage ditch, carefully crawling several metres before he stopped and waited.
The border patrol seemed in high spirits, laughing and joking, he could hear them as they reached the point he sought. They’d had these sort of alerts before but nothing had ever happened so a certain lack of focus had crept in.
A competent speaker of Hungarian, in the otherwise quiet evening, Radler could hear them, discussing one of the patrol’s new girlfriends and not all was as complimentary as it could have been. They moved off as the headlights and silhouette of a truck approached them from the village in the south. When the patrol had progressed another hundred metres, the vehicle stopped alongside them, words were said, Harald couldn’t hear what but the troops clambered in and the group drove past the end of the drainage ditch only to stop 400 metres further on and start reversing. He flattened himself into the trickle of water and dirt that lay beneath him, fear welling up inside, his hand on his pistol. He could hear shouts but, despite his rising panic, he felt he had to take a look. Cautiously, he raised his head to peer through the grass of the embankment. They were turning around, one man on foot at the rear guiding the driver. He climbed back into the cab and the vehicle swung left from a small track back onto the tarmac road, headlights on main beam lit up the countryside. With a clanking of gears, it gathered speed, illuminating the watchtower whose occupant tried to shield his eyes then it tore away back to the village and the border crossing point beyond.
Radler didn’t of course see all this because when the truck swung around, he’d hit the bottom of the ditch again, one side of his face held so fast to the ground that water trickled along it and through his hair.