He handed the phone to Ponomarenko who asked a few husky questions, and listened intently.
‘Satisfied?’ asked the lawyer, when he had hung up,
Ponomarenko lit a cigarette. He was not so much satisfied as stunned with relief. The slimy little bastard blackmailing him had been met barely two weeks after his first joyous arrival in Batumi. Six nightmarish months ago — in June!
He let out a great lungful of smoke.
‘Actually,’ he said, slowly, ‘there isn’t any friend. It’s for me. I’m the client.’
‘No!’ the lawyer said, opening his eyes very wide. ‘You surprise me!’
But what Ponomarenko had to tell him soon surprised him much more.
The lunch hour was twelve to two in Batumi, but half a chicken each was sent up to the prosecutor’s office and they talked right through it. By then the discussion was exclusively on the agent who had trapped Ponomarenko, and on making arrangements to meet him again. In this matter, too, Ponomarenko had been given immunity, and was gladly cooperating.
His earlier statement — on handing over the keys to his apartment in Green Cape, on the detailed information he had given of conditions there, on the strange interest the man had shown in a chance Asiatic companion — had already gone off to Tbilisi.
With regard to the chance Asiatic, Ponomarenko could remember very little. He had met him in a bar. His name was Kolya, also a driver from the north. The agent had seen them drinking together; had been very interested; had wanted every detail about him. God knew why; Ponomarenko didn’t. But Kolya had been glad to talk about himself and he had let him talk and had later given the details.
Kolya what? Couldn’t remember. What details? Couldn’t remember those, either. Something about Chukotka and his background, he vaguely thought, and various places the guy had been. He was a native, a Chukchee. Only stayed a few days, anyway. Hadn’t seen him again.
But at two o’clock a fax arrived from Tbilisi that threw more light on this chance-met Chukchee. It also threw Ponomarenko into something like a stupor. The name of the Chukchee was Khodyan — Nikolai Dmitrievich Khodyan — and he was presently occupying Ponomarenko’s apartment in Green Cape.
The fax, transmitted via Yakutsk and Irkutsk, had originated in Tchersky.
Tchersky was in the same time zone as Tcherny Vodi.
There it was now 10 p.m., and Kolya Khodyan was just going through the wall.
46
The Evenks were especially jovial to Kolya Khodyan on this, his last morning at Tcherny Vodi.
One of them, cleaning Major Militsky’s suite, had heard that the lower guard post was being opened up at eleven. Medical Officer Komarova would be at the camp before noon. And surgery would be held as usual in the guards’ barracks: which had occasioned so much winking and chuckling that Kolya was apprehensive that even the thickest of the staff must notice it.
Major Militsky noticed it.
‘They’re cheerful today, Sergeant,’ he said, on his rounds.
‘They are, Major. No accounting for these fellows.’
‘This baby’s name, is it — making them so happy?’
‘Ah. That. Never thought of that, Major. I think you’ve got it. Childish people.’
‘Yes. They are childish,’ the major confirmed, with a nod. ‘Respect their traditions, though, and you get good work out of them. Makes for order.’
‘Well, that’s certain. I’ve known ’em turn very awkward, otherwise. Oh yes, that’s certain.’
‘Yes,’ the major said. He was never more certain of anything in his life. To be congratulated on his tactful handling. He felt tactful. He felt well braced. His face was rosy as an apple this morning. ‘Good morning all,’ he said in the storage sheds. ‘Everything in order here?’
‘All in order, Major.’ The corporal of the stores detail saluted him. ‘Empties stacked. Got them ready for a quick hitch in case the medical officer has to take off fast again.’
‘Ah well, she won’t be in such a hurry today,’ the major said, smiling. ‘That was a special situation before.’ Although said with a smile there was nothing particularly humorous in the remark, so that he was surprised at the great explosion of mirth it drew from the Evenks. He continued nodding kindly at them. ‘Very good news — that the baby now has a name. Excellent!’
‘Yes. Excellent, Major!’ agreed the Evenks, grinning.
‘My congratulations again,’ the major said, and took his leave; but somewhat puzzled. There was something anticipatory in all the grins as though they expected him to say something even funnier. Well, they just felt good, and it made them smile. He felt good and it made him smile.
It had not, however, made Kolya Khodyan smile. There was a childish delight in guile among tribal people that he knew too well. He hoped the guards didn’t know it so well. Just a few hours more to get through. He felt very tense. He had a sense of premonition. Something wasn’t right today. He scented the freezing air. Something not right.
He had shown them the sealed letter, and the ring. They knew, and very joyfully, what they had helped him do; and what still had to be done. And an unexpected problem had arisen. In the guards’ barracks, where the surgery would be held, the rule was ‘hats off’. The Evenks in the general business of the camp remained always covered but here, as a courtesy in the guards’ quarters, they did uncover. Obviously he couldn’t uncover. The matter had been debated. Since the present squad of guards had only seen them covered they couldn’t tell whether or not one of them had a shaven head. But it would draw attention to him, at the last moment, and he could do without that.
Then what?
Then they would all keep their hats on.
And say what?
‘We’ll see,’ they said.
This happy-go-lucky attitude filled him with foreboding. He wondered if it was responsible for his feeling. He didn’t understand the feeling. He was very tense.
But he continued at work. Yesterday’s plane had again filled the storage sheds, and the tractors were kept on the go to the delivery bay at the rear. A good deal more snow had fallen and he wondered if she could even make it today; whether the thing wouldn’t be cancelled at the last moment. But at a quarter to twelve, returning to the sheds, he saw the small convoy appear at the perimeter gates, and his heart leapt.
He carried on working. The guards would be attended to first at the surgery; and the dinner hour was being staggered so that everybody would see the doctor in turn. Already it had been agreed he would be among the last.
He had his dinner. He had trouble eating it, but he ate it; and while doing so was joined by the first returning Evenk patient, grinning.
‘It’s okay with the hats.’
He looked up inquiringly.
‘For the baby!’
He didn’t inquire any further, wiped his mouth, and went out to take his place. A guard stood in the porch outside the barracks keeping the few Evenks in line. As one came out he sent another in. Kolya evaded the grinning eyes and looked around him. It was dark, but under the floodlights he could see the bobik. It stood outside Major Militsky’s office and a guard was standing by it, beating his hands together. The motor was running and the driver was sitting inside out of the cold.
‘Okay, next.’
An Evenk had come out, and the first in line went in.
She was taking them very briskly. Within three or four minutes another man was going in; and Kolya had been joined in the rear by two more. One further man was still to come; this had been arranged. The further man arrived at just the moment when Kolya was at the head of the line.