Somewhere East of Life. Brian Aldiss

relaxed attitude to life had been demonstrated on the flight from Tbilisi.

      Speaking in his easy way, he said, ‘Captain Kaginovich, as you are aware, I am merely on a peace-keeping mission instigated by the EU Security Council. I have nothing to do with the forces of General Stalinbrass, or with the UN blue berets, who were drawn into this struggle when their convoy was ambushed by Azeri forces near Signakhi.’

      ‘Those Azeris – they’re rebels, murderers, ethnic cleansers!’ Kaginovich said.

      ‘I’m a fact-finder, Captain. My presence here is designed to work toward a truce between you and your present enemies, so that proper discussions can take place and –’

      ‘None of discussions! Not until we have regained our stolen territories from here to the sea.’

      Irving continued unperturbed. ‘– in Borzhomi, or elsewhere to be agreed. To this end, the EU Security Council will deliver at least a percentage of the aid requested. Dr Burnell and I have flown in with the first instalment.’ From inside his military parka he drew a list of the supplies and handed it across the desk. ‘No arms there, of course.’

      ‘We can secure arms from Hungary. We have friends, you know.’ Kaginovich grabbed the paper and read hastily down the list. ‘Yes. Not bad. Good. Excellent. We need everything. When can we receive more?’

      Jim Irving was a neat wiry man in his sixties, athletic, without a gram of spare fat. His tanned good-natured face with its blue-grey eyes was mid-Western in origin, his white hair cut short. He spoke in a deceptively casual way. ‘You may receive more aid when my mission and Dr Burnell’s are satisfactorily completed. Also when proper courtesy is shown to Dr Burnell. You have our papers and know Dr Burnell to be one of the trustees of World Antiquities and Cultural Heritage. His directive is a simple one, requiring your cooperation: to make a survey of the ancient church of Ghvtismshobeli on Lake Tskavani.’

      Burnell said, ‘We understand that the Tskavani region is at present under your jurisdiction. Or have United Georgian forces reclaimed it?’

      Kaginovich slapped his thigh under the table and said, ‘We undergo a war for our survival. I regard this directive as an imposition. We have no time to worry about old churches.’ He launched into a lecture in which the word ‘liberty’ figured largely.

      Burnell broke in. ‘I shall leave at once if you are unable to cooperate. Let me remind you that if WACH means little to you, Captain Kaginovich, I come under the command of General Augustus Stalinbrass of the EU Security Forces, who takes a personal interest in my mission.’

      Irving did not so much as blink an eye at this claim. Kaginovich stood up. He summoned a nearby guard, who came hastily forward. ‘Dr Burnell, maybe you are a stranger to war. I will show you the reality of war in our region. You shall see how hostilities are conducted.’

      He marched off with the guard, to leave the building by a side door.

      As Burnell well knew, ‘Gus’ Stalinbrass cared little more for religion and culture than did the ambitious Kaginovich. Nevertheless, the Church of Ghvtismshobeli had notched up notably longer staying power than the General; indeed, it had outlasted what had been until recent years the Socialist Republic of Georgia. For all its inefficiency, WACH had exerted pressure through Washington. As Burnell waited to board his flight at FAM airport, he had received a letter of authorization and support from Stalinbrass’s command. Of the hidden agenda regarding the ikon, nothing was said, but Burnell did not doubt that ‘Number One’ was involved.

      Burnell had flown from FAM to Israel by Lufthansa, and from Israel to Tbilisi by a military jet. Irving had met him in Tbilisi. From Tbilisi to Kaginovich’s temporary headquarters had been a hundred-and-fifty-kilometre hop. In truth, Kaginovich’s so-called revolution was little but a guerrilla movement. A dozen small cities, of which Bogdanakhi was the largest, had fallen to Kaginovich. The supplies they had brought him in the Yak were deflected from Ethiopia.

      Impatient with Kaginovich’s abrupt departure, Burnell rose and walked about. Jim Irving sat tight. ‘Looks like we’re going to have a floor show to test our nerves,’ he said.

      Abstract patterns formed from Arabic scripts had once adorned the walls of the old mosque. They had been largely obliterated by fire and graffiti. Kicking about in some ashes near the mihrab, the niche on the mosque’s Mecca-facing wall, Burnell came on fragments of unburnt polished wood. The mimbar, the high pulpit, had evidently been used to warm Kaginovich’s troops on cold nights. The captain had put religion to practical use.

      Harsh shouts sounded, screams, curses. A number of guards entered the mosque, bringing with them two prisoners at gunpoint. The prisoners were mere lads, dirty, ragged, wild. Both looked sick with terror. They stumbled as they came.

      Kaginovich followed, looking grimly pleased. Directed by a sergeant, the West Georgian guards thrust their captives against a wall of the mosque. Kaginovich issued an order. The soldiery all round sat up and took notice, or stood silently.

      The sergeant produced a bowie knife, severing the belt of the older of the prisoners. The man’s cord breeches were dragged down, to reveal to all that he had shat himself with fright.

      Irving calmly surveyed the scene. He strolled round the desk and sat down in Kaginovich’s chair, hitching a leg up on the desk. Taking his cue, Burnell sat down too, folding his arms tightly together to put himself in an imaginary straitjacket.

      Another order from Kaginovich. The sergeant now threw himself at the other prisoner, the younger of the two. The guards held the lad, dragging his arms behind his back. Terrible cries rang out as the lad’s face was carved into. Burnell could bear neither to watch nor turn away. One of the lad’s eyes was gouged out. It fell to the floor.

      The sergeant wiped his bloodied hands on the prisoner’s shirt. The prisoner collapsed in the straw and dirt, trapping his mutilated face between hands and knees. His companion, unwilling witness to this cruelty, had turned a frightful colour. Sweat poured down his unshaven face. He began to babble. Possibly he was praying. His body shook so badly it needed four men to hold him still. The severed eye was picked up and rammed into his mouth. He was beaten about his head until he swallowed it.

      Both prisoners were then shot from behind. As their bodies were dragged away, hounds sprang forward and quizzed at the trails of blood and slime.

      Kaginovich rubbed his hands with a washing movement. He said to Burnell, ‘Warfare is serious business. All that and more we shall do to their wives and sisters when we get them.’

      The whole contingent was due to move towards the town of Bogdanakhi at dawn. Burnell and Irving were given rope beds to sleep on in a barrack near the mosque. Each carried space blankets to protect them from the cold of night.

      Greatly though he longed for sleep, Burnell remained on a rocky shore of wakefulness. The scene in the mosque kept returning like a malignant bluebottle. It would not leave him. The pain of the young prisoners seemed drawn on his retina in white lines. Sickly, he crept at last into the open, to stand under the stars and gulp in the night air like a man diseased.

      After a while, he saw Irving was standing nearby, a dark thin figure with hunched shoulders. The aroma of his cigarette reached Burnell.

      ‘It’ll be a long way to Ghvtismshobeli at this rate,’ said Burnell. ‘And with this company.’

      Irving spoke in a nonchalant morning voice. ‘We may come up against worse sights yet. Those executions were not designed to impress us two alone. They were aimed also at Kaginovich’s officers. Loyalty here is reinforced by cruelty.’

      ‘Hard to see why anyone should be loyal to that monster.’

      ‘Kaginovich is a renegade from the Georgian National Guard, where he was cordially hated. His men probably hate him too, but they fight for a land they love. Kaginovich’s nickname, incidentally, is “The Dead One”.’

      ‘Not very apt, I’d have thought.’

      ‘Nope? Believe me, Roy, it’s bang on target. I’ll tell you the