Vagabond by Gerald Seymour

opportunities had been bounced. Timofey Simonov had explained the depth of his problem.
    If the police had stopped Ralph Exton’s Opel hire car that night, his licence would have gone and probably a fortnight of his liberty. The drive, drunken and meandering, had been across the Dutch frontier into Belgium and on to Ostende. There was an airport outside the town, filled with old Antonovs and Ilyushins, more battered and fragile even than when they had been at the core of the transport fleet at Milovice. Ralph Exton had marched him, swaying a little, to a complex of Portakabins, had found a man, Vladdy, and had done the big talk: he had brought his Russian friends, he said, men of talent and intelligence, whom Mr Vik could use; they were at Mr Vik’s disposal.
    To this day, years later, he could not have said what relationship existed between Ralph Exton and Mr Vik, who ran an airline of planes held together with sticking tape and glue. It had the protection of government and took crateloads of weapons from Burgas on Bulgaria’s Black Sea coast to any of the small, but promising, bush wars of central Africa. Some chemistry had existed between the two men, and it had given Timofey Simonov the break he had craved. For years Timofey had been on the periphery of Mr Vik’s operations, meeting intelligence people, who needed covert work done. When Mr Vik had gone down, stung by the Americans in Asia and extradited to New York, Timofey Simonov had slipped back into the shadows.
    Now he had an empire, founded on an alcohol-fuelled night and the generosity of Ralph Exton. Maybe the first true friend he had had. There was applause. The orchestra were in and so was the choir. The conductor beamed at his audience.
    A year later, when he had been building a network of his own in weapons and the materials of war, well thought of by his new patron, Mr Vik, Timofey Simonov had met up with his benefactor. He had bought expensive champagne for Ralph Exton, and had thanked him for providing him with his first step up. He had asked how well Ralph Exton had known the Russian with the aircraft going in and out of Africa. ‘Never met him, actually. Just thought, Timmy, from what I’d heard, that he might be right for you – and he was . . . You make your own luck, that’s what I always say. You did. Glad I could be of assistance.’
    As the lights dimmed, Timofey Simonov might have reflected that life had been kind to him. He had friendship and the security that residence in Karlovy Vary brought. He applauded. He was at peace and thought any danger points were well covered.
     
    It was what they always did on the last night, Sunday, before setting off on a Sword Tours journey to the battlefields and beaches. He could imagine it. Bags were by the front door. A last phone call had been made to the taxi company to confirm a pick-up in the morning. Some would have put histories of the campaigns in their hand luggage and others would have iPads to second-guess the guide. A few were lonely and would look to form friendships. All were anxious to touch the awesome battles fought on that Channel coast. It was likely that all had heard of the driver who would be beside their guide, that his knowledge was encyclopedic. Last checks: papers cancelled, neighbours warned of absence.
     
    He stood in the doorway. Curnow was at a table, alone, with an empty plate and glass in front of him. He studied the man’s profile. The features were the same but he had seldom seen ‘Call-sign Vagabond’ calm, untroubled.
    ‘Hello, Vagabond. You’re looking well. I never liked the “Desperate” tag – rather demeaning to a man of your qualities. How about, when you’ve paid, we go for a walk somewhere quiet, and I can tell you why I’ve come and why I’m taking you back? Come on, Vagabond. I’ve an aircraft out there, idling. Let’s move.’
     
    They walked on the open beach, the wind fierce. The moon showed the curl of the waves where they broke on the