Kolymsky Heights (34 page)

He started up and pulled out of the ditch.

Okay. Baranikha. Three or four hundred kilometres. Six o’clock, he saw.

By six fifteen the general was stepping into his car. They’d asked if the transport company’s vehicles could now be allowed to move. The route to Bilibino and beyond was still paralysed. Yes, he said, on consideration. He had totally forgotten it.

They had also asked if he wanted the people ahead warned that he was coming. In no way! Catch them unprepared. The night’s work had already warned them enough. Give them time and they’d soon dream up a story to account for the discrepancy.

A highly interesting vehicle had emerged – or rather not emerged – at the collective. The
native
collective, Novokolymsk. Where they’d claimed never to have heard of the fellow. As the garbage workers had also claimed … Well, he’d been had, and he saw it now. Natives stuck together.

The man had made dozens of journeys up and down this route. Was it likely that he’d never even looked into the collective – full of natives? For certain he’d looked
into
it, had clapped eyes on the vehicle, and had taken it away. Probably on a truck, back to Green Cape.

Which argued that he’d done it that way round: first of all prepared a secure place to work, and then taken the work
to
it. The general was beginning to get an outline of the man. Well, now for an outline of his vehicle.

They found the helicopter warming up, and before seven had landed at the collective. The row had wakened some of the inhabitants, and from them the general’s aides routed out the half-asleep secretary of the place and also the individual in charge of its vehicles.

The information required was simple – yet it took three hours to get to the bottom of it.

Nobody knew Khodyan, of course – photo passed around, heads shaken. All as expected.

The vehicle was a one-ton Tatra; it had stood for years at the back of a shed used for storing fertilisers. They had noticed it missing only when the police had phoned in the middle of the night. The secretary had roused the mechanic and the mechanic had gone out and had a look.

When was the last time it had been seen? The last time – probably August just before winter. Fertilisers weren’t needed in winter, nobody had need to go to the shed. Could anybody have got into the shed? Yes, anybody could have got in – no padlocks, just this bit of string here.

A thorough search of the collective and its environs showed no trace of the Tatra. It had been a wreck, kept only for parts. Had meant to get a Certificate of Destruction for it, never got round to it. Had no trouble getting a new one; authorities knew this would be turned in some time.
Could
it be moved? Well it had been moved. Maybe some members had stripped it, shifted it, and didn’t like to say. Or maybe just kids, messing about.

The general’s party breakfasted at the collective, and took stock of the situation.

From Tchersky news arrived that all other defunct vehicles had now been located. Only this one was missing.

Yes, this was the one. He’d hauled it away, rebuilt it with parts from the transport company, laid in a few jerricans of fuel – and had it ready and waiting in his workshop;
perhaps
at the rubbish dump. To which he had been transported, almost by chauffeur-service, right from that yard. While the fools had wasted time searching warehouses he had been buzzing away, fast, on the highway of the river.

But buzzing where?

Volodya had brought the maps, and they were studied. With a head start, the man would have taken the most direct route
out. The most direct route
was
the river. The first sizeable airport on the river was at Zirianka. South. He had gone south. A call to Zirianka elicited the news that its air services south had been halted for days by blizzards.

The general was pleased to hear this. On the way from Irkutsk he had flown
over
the blizzard himself, had flown high in his service aircraft. Now he gave his orders personally. A 1966 one-ton Tatra, farm-truck body, probably very battered, was to be found and held. Its driver, a native, perhaps travelling under the name Khodyan, was also to be held.

Yes: what registration plates, the Tatra?

The general paused. The Tatra had no plates, of course; they had been handed in. But he would have got himself plates. The plates, he told Zirianka, would be out-of-town plates, details unknown; but engine and chassis numbers as follows.

And the native, his description?

The general paused again.

The man would very possibly have changed his description. Hold
all
natives, he said. He would be coming immediately.

To Zirianka a long-distance helicopter was required, at present not available at Tchersky; which meant using the general’s own jet. The pilot and first officer of the jet, anticipating another day of hanging about, had awakened to titanic hangovers. Further delay. The general used it to issue a series of orders.

Because of disruption to flights south, the man might try some criss-cross method, involving smaller airports.
All
airstrips in north Siberia to be warned. Natives without pre-booked flights to be held until details reported to Tchersky.

Wherever he was, the man would now have out-of-area plates. All vehicles with such plates to be stopped and details reported to Tchersky.

The first order involved air control at Yakutsk, the only authority in contact with the smaller strips. The second involved several dozen calls to police and militia posts.

One o’clock when the general stepped aboard, and he was tired. Only four hours’ sleep last night.

Medical Officer Komarova had also lost sleep last night. She had left late, and with a prepared story if stopped. A providential accident at Anyuysk: she had ordered the patient to be kept where he was until seen. She would see him at the earliest moment.

No activity along the main river, no watch being kept, so before Anyuysk she had turned off, driven fast to the cave, and entered with her torch.

Gone. And with no trace left that he had ever been here. Curtains, lighting, block and tackle, all away; no sign even of where they had been. Vapour from the kerosene stove had created new frost, bulging on every surface. No drop of oil, no stain, no scrap of anything left. Well, he’d been careful. Yet he had promised …

She searched with the torch, but there was nothing, only frost. Except one small hump that turned out to be not entirely frost. She recognised it at once, the wrapping paper from the salami, and opened the many folds for the message. No message but as she turned it this way and that something fell, and on the ground was the ring. In the torchlight she couldn’t decipher the engraved motto but she knew it anyway –
As our
love the circle has no end
– and felt the tears again on her cheeks.

At Zirianka there was no 1966 one-ton Tatra – which meant only that the cautious fellow could have left it outside – but there were eighteen ill-tempered natives stopped from boarding their flight to Druzhina. Druzhina was north, on the Indigarka river, and the general wasn’t interested in it, or in the eighteen natives, after quickly looking them over.

Copies of the photo had been brought and they were passed round all employees of the airport.

Two recognised the man, and four didn’t. The truth was, the
manager said, many such natives passed through. At flight times the place was very busy, particularly for flights south.

When was the last flight south? The last flight south had been Saturday morning, 0900.

Saturday 0900. Well, leaving Tchersky Friday evening he could have made it. Records were checked of that flight, and flights to all other destinations since. Numbers of natives showed up; racial identity listed from internal passports. No Khodyans.

Which meant he probably now had other papers.

All flight destinations were contacted; details of all natives given and follow-up inquiries authorised. At the same time, the local police were engaged – and had been for some hours – in a sweep of the area in search of a 1966 one-ton Tatra.

By evening, replies had come thick and fast from flight destinations, and from local police posts. All negative.

The general took dinner with his staff and reviewed the situation again. If the man had caught a flight, or even if he hadn’t, he had still had to get himself here
somehow
.

If he had
come
here.

Maybe he hadn’t come here.

Or if he had come, maybe it wasn’t in the Tatra.

The Tatra was the likeliest, the only, vehicle they had to go on. But perhaps it
wasn’t
the Tatra. Had Tchersky reported Tatra parts missing? What the devil had they reported?

Tchersky was contacted and reported that the transport company was still checking discrepancies. As yet nothing pointed significantly to any particular type of vehicle. When it did they would call in immediately.

The general decided to hang on till midnight. But half an hour later two calls from Tchersky changed his mind. The first was a response to his order for out-of-area vehicles, and it came from a strange area. A militia post at Bilibino had reported a native passing through in a bobik soon after five this morning. The man had claimed to be a road mechanic on goldfield duties, but no road station had any knowledge of him, or of his bobik.

The second related to country air strips, and was from a source still stranger. The general took the phone himself and his eyebrows shot up. ‘They’ve found him
where?
Say it again. Spell it.’ But even as spelt, he’d never heard of it and he looked round at his staff. ‘Baranikha?’ he said.

For Porter, pulling out of the ditch at six o’clock that morning, Baranikha had still been far ahead. He was not clear
how
far ahead. Something over 300 kilometres, the little atlas showed; but with mountains all the way and a twisting road it could be very much farther. In any case, he needed more fuel.

By 10 a.m. he had it, and two more road stations were behind him. He had also had a fantastic surprise. All the trucks were running here! Not in his direction, for he had overtaken nothing, but the other way. The road to Bilibino had been the danger – all long-distance traffic halted there. They hadn’t expected him to get beyond it. But now he was beyond it, running free. And here everything was normal.

The exhilaration had temporarily lifted his fatigue; but now exhaustion had set in again. He had driven over a thousand kilometres. He was light-headed, seeing double.

Somewhere ahead and to the right a halo of light became two haloes, and one again. Then two. In the snow flurries he tried to focus. He was running beside a frozen stream but there had been no bridges for the past hour. The fuzzy light ahead showed activity of some kind; there had to be a linking track to it over the stream.

Presently, almost abeam, he saw there
were
two haloes: a floodlit aerial railway on a mountain slope above, and below it
a bucket chain dumping ore into a line of trucks. He saw also that the track from this operation ran to the stream, and the highway and, thank God, to a bridge connecting it with the highway. He took himself under this bridge, leaden with fatigue, and immediately switched everything off and got into his bag.

A quarter to eleven. Two full hours’ sleep, he decided.

And before one, to time, awoke. There was still half a flask of coffee left, and he swilled a mouthful round. He was faint with hunger. Plenty of food left, he saw, as he pulled the bag towards him; he had moved too fast, too continuously. He cut himself some bread, and unwrapped the salami, and looked at the coarse paper for a moment, wondering if she’d found the other one yet …

A lifetime ago.

He chewed his food and tried to think when it was. All Sunday he had worked on the bobik; Sunday night she’d brought the battery. Early Monday he’d left. Had driven all day, all night.

Only yesterday. And already over a thousand kilometres away. And with two more road stations behind him he must be nearing his destination.

He pulled the atlas across and found Baranikha again.

All the contour shades still purple. He traced the road he was on. A major river must be coming up. Once he hit the river, the road ran beside it straight to Baranikha – the river itself carrying on to the Arctic. He had turned north again. Now he had to fly south. Several short flights south.

He followed the pages south through the atlas. Nakhodka was so far there was no point in plotting it yet. But he saw where he had to head. Magadan first. Not the place itself but some small spot near it. Polar Aviation’s flights touched down at many country stops. And Magadan wasn’t so far now, maybe 1500 kilometres. Two or three hops. He could make it today.

He checked out the road and in a few minutes was moving again, into snow.

Twenty kilometres along, the headlights of a convoy came towards him: a Tchersky convoy. The big Kamas flashed their lights at him as they lumbered past, and he flashed back.

2 p.m.

At 2.30 he picked up the river, pulled in and checked with the atlas again.

The scale was so small it was hard to tell but it looked no more than thirty or forty kilometres to Baranikha now. The colour faded to green in the area around the dot, indicating some kind of valley; probably accounting for the siting of the town. The airport would be in that valley. He started up again and proceeded more slowly, looking for security checks. So far he had seen nothing, but still – his registration plate was a strange one here.

The river coiled away presently, not so straight as on the map, but the road ran dead straight. The river was now below, still to the right. It dropped quite far below, yes into a valley, wide-ish, flattish. The high ground was to his left, fold on fold of it, an occasional frozen waterfall showing the chasms in between. The road had been built on a straight ledge of rock running between what was evidently a marsh on the right and the jagged peaks on the left.

It rose and fell slightly now with the contours, and quite suddenly, on a rise, he saw the lights of the town below. And very close below. Hazy in the snow, but not more than three or four kilometres. The road ran straight downhill to it: a toytown neatly laid but in the valley. Smoke-pluming factories; lit-up apartment blocks. And an airport, with runway, control tower, adjacent buildings, car park.

He sat and watched it for some minutes. There didn’t seem to be a barrier. He drove cautiously down, entered the car park and cruised round. No militia; no people even; just a few vans and battered work buses, all crusted with snow. He stationed the bobik nose out, put a few necessities into the grip, and picked his way across the rutted ground into the airport building.

A shabby hall, very grimy, crammed with people. His heart sank at the sight. They had all, obviously, been here a long time. Every seat was taken and everywhere people were sleeping – on chairs, benches, the floor. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and a hubbub of noise. A knot of men bunched round the check-in desk, and a denser crowd round a bar at the far end of the hall. There was a canteen there, all the tables full; card games, domino games, a man playing an accordion.

What the hell! All flights stopped, evidently. Were they looking for him here, too?

He made his way to the check-in desk, saw the flight board on the wall. A list of destinations: all times blank.

A heavy smell of sweat rose from the gang here; working men, many of them native, short skis and rucksacks strapped to their backs. He picked one who looked like a Chukchee.

‘What’s going on, brother?’ he asked.

‘They’re giving out the tickets. For Mitlakino.’

‘What’s the hold-up?’

‘No hold-up. The blizzard isn’t heading there.’

A blizzard: not him, then. ‘How about Magadan?’ he said.

‘Magadan?’ The man stared at him, and he saw now that he was drunk. ‘Magadan out. Everything south been out for days. And for another thirty-six hours. They laid you off here?’

‘Sure, laid off. What’s this other place – Mitla what?’

‘Mitlakino. Work there. See a notice.’ The man was swaying, and was jostled aside by others returning through the crush with papers.

He pulled out of the mob and looked for the notice. It was beyond the desk, on the wall between it and the canteen. Men were sleeping here on bundles on the floor. He leaned over them and read it.

Chukotskiy Poluostrov
. The Chukotka Peninsula. Way east; as far east as you could go. It was south he wanted. But there would be no way south for thirty-six hours. With this mob stuck here for days there was no guarantee he’d get a flight even then.

He pondered this and pushed through to the bar. The bar, he saw right away, was out of hard drink: crates of empties were stacked behind it, the two women working there in angry argument with men leaning over to see what was beneath. Some of the men, he saw, had formed tight drinking groups of their own and were taking swigs from personal bottles passed around.

The end wall of the canteen was papered with an enormous map of Siberia and he made his way to it, trying to think what was for the best. To get as far away as possible was obviously best – but as far east as the Chukotka peninsula? Still, if it was the only place planes were flying. From there, with the blizzard over, he should be able to fly south – and to Magadan. Its supplies probably came direct from Magadan: the principal town for the Chukotka region. Better than staying here, anyway.

Mitlakino he had never heard of, but he saw its position, on the peeling edge of the map, the sheet greasily fading out by the light switch, but ringed in red ballpoint. The name itself had been handwritten in, partly on the wall – evidently nothing there yet, still in course of construction.

From Baranikha, also ringed on the map, it was a long way. According to the scale, something over 800 kilometres. But what of it? A direct flight would take only a couple of hours.

‘What’s a problem, brother?’ The drunk had found him – had found him abruptly, pushed backwards out of a ring of
drinkers. ‘Greedy bastards!’ he told the drinkers. ‘What’s a problem?’

‘No problem,’ Porter said. ‘You going to Mitlakino?’

‘Sure going Mitlakino. Know plenty fellows Mitlakino. Good fellows, Chukchees, not greedy bastards. Listen, what kind a fellow you, brother? You not Chukchee?’

‘No,’ Porter said. The man strongly stank. ‘Evenk.’

‘Evenks all right. Listen, you got something to drink?’

‘I got something for me,’ Porter said.

‘You good fellow. Let’s have drink. Call a plane soon.’

‘How soon they call the plane?’

‘Soon. On a board. Just time little drink.’

‘Just a minute,’ Porter said, and went to see the board, the man dragging behind him. On the board the Mitlakino time was now up, the only one up. It wasn’t so soon.

Mitlakino
1800.

The airport clock showed 1615.

‘Okay,’ Porter said, ‘we’ll have a little drink. Only put your papers away, you’ll lose them.’ The man was still clutching the sheaf in his hand. ‘And we don’t want anyone sharing, we’ll find a place of our own.’

They found a place in the boiler room. The notice on the door said keep out, but it wasn’t locked. The one he’d tried first had electrical flashes on it and was firmly locked.

The boiler room was hot and he helped the Chukchee off with his backpack and skis before settling on the floor and producing the bottle from his grip. It was his last bottle, only one swig gone, and the man’s eyes lit up. ‘You good fellow,’ he said.

By ten to five only a quarter was left in the bottle and the Chukchee, after a little desultory singing, was nodding.

‘I like a man can take a drink,’ he said.

‘You a man can take a drink?’ Porter asked him.

‘Sure I take a drink,’ the Chukchee said.

‘I take a drink,’ Porter told him, and glugged at the bottle.
He took nothing from it but he held it up, examining it owlishly. ‘That’s a good drink,’ he said. ‘I don’t see you take a good drink.’

The Chukchee took a good drink. He took all of it and showed the bottle, and smiled foolishly, sliding sideways. Porter watched, awaiting the first snore.

Yes. Out for the count. And for some hours.

It was just on five, and now there was little time.

He took the Chukchee’s papers, checking to see the ticket was there, and also the backpack and skis. He collected his grip, switched the light off, and went rapidly back through the crowded hall.

1705 on the wall clock. 1800 on the flight board.

He stowed everything in the bobik and drove out of the car park. The snow was still gusting, but now at him, from the south. He went back up the hill, to the rise from where he’d first seen the town; the river and the valley now on his left. The rock cliffs were to his right and he searched them, looking for a gap. He remembered there had been frozen waterfalls, dropping into a chasm, and soon he saw one.

He got out of the car and peered down, with the torch. Smooth icy bulges in the rock. No obstructions. And no sign of bottom. But deep. It wouldn’t be seen for months, if then; smashed to nothing by the summer torrent.

He transferred what he needed to the backpack. Almost nothing left in the bobik’s tank, but one jerrican still full. This he threw into the chasm, together with the grip. Then he took the keys out of the ignition, pulled the wheel hard over, let the brake off and pushed it backwards downhill. It ran slowly away from him, ran easily, and went over easily – good little bastard, good to the end, and he watched as it simply went, vanished, without trouble. Above the wind he heard a muffled thud, and another, and then nothing.

He hitched the backpack on, and undid the skis. They were work jobs, short and wide, for rough ground; the sticks bound
up with them. He buckled the skis to his boots, had a look at his watch – 5.25 – and took off.

He was back in the car park in fifteen minutes, took two more to get the skis off and strapped under the backpack, and was inside the airport building in time to hear an announcement boom from the loudspeakers.

‘Mitlakino – final call! All passengers for Mitlakino, Mishmita and Polyarnik, go at once to the aircraft! Last call for Mitlakino. Departure in fifteen minutes for Mishmita, Polyarnik and Mitlakino. Passengers go at once to the aircraft.’

A knot of stragglers was still going through and he joined them. Not a direct flight, then. And something puzzling in the names. Mitlakino he’d only heard of a couple of hours before, and Polyarnik not at all. But Mishmita? Vaguely familiar.

He handed in his ticket and filed through. The plane was an ancient three-engine Yak, the short-take-off crate of the north. Inside was pandemonium, a struggling mass of skis and backpacks. Sixty or so men were aboard and he found himself crammed next to a buttoned-up Russian, evidently a professional man, lips pursed at the noisy and undisciplined natives.

‘Go inside – I get off first,’ the man gruffly ordered, and took the aisle seat.

‘Where you get off?’ Porter asked him, companionably.

‘Mishmita.’

‘Don’t know Mishmita. What’s Mishmita?’

‘
Mys
,’ the Russian curtly told him. ‘Not mish.
Mys
. Mys Schmidta.’

‘Ah.’

Mys Schmidta –
Cape Schmidta
! Last seen on the chartroom table of the
Suzaku Maru
; he’d watched a plane take off from the air strip there; had drawn the captain’s attention to it while checking the ship’s position on the chart himself. From there to the mouth of the Kolyma, forty-seven
hours. Now he was reversing his tracks – truly going back the way he’d come.