‘General, I don’t think he’s gone anywhere. He’s an experienced driver. He knows there isn’t anywhere to go. He’s a native, drinking his way through a problem. I know his type. When you see the warehouses you’ll appreciate —’
The general halted him, with a shake of the bismuth.
‘You know this fellow, do you?’
‘A hundred people know him! I have their testimony.’
‘He’s a foreign agent,’ the general told him bleakly. ‘His operation was set up in June. Khodyan’s papers were stolen in June.’
‘General, there are many people here with stolen papers. We need skilled workers — we don’t inquire too closely whether they’re using stolen —’
‘His papers aren’t stolen. I said Khodyan’s were stolen.’
The chief of militia blinked at him.
‘General?’
‘Khodyan’s papers were stolen at Batumi six months ago. He reported the matter to the police. Thirty-six hours later they turned up in a pocket of his suitcase. End of inquiry. You’ve seen this fellow’s papers?’
‘Of course, General. When the Transport Company took him on we naturally —’
‘All correct, were they? Stamped? Right-coloured seals, red, blue, green?’
‘Certainly. Magadan papers. We’re familiar with Magadan papers.’
‘They were copied. Colour-copied, overnight — and properly bound and embossed, I expect, if you noticed nothing out of the ordinary. And the originals returned. That’s a foreign operation. Khodyan gave us the benefit of his reminiscences. He’s in Magadan, working. Your Chukchee with a hundred friends is a spy.’
The chief of militia listened aghast to this, and to the story of Ponomarenko.
‘There will be many things for me to look into here,’ the general told him forbiddingly, ‘but Tchersky’s warehouse facilities — fix this in your head — are not among them. He’s got away. These trucks are all halted?’
‘Every one, General.’
‘Too late, I expect. I’ll have every manjack re-questioned all the same. He knows of a vehicle somewhere. You’ve got a complete list of all those in the area?’
‘All of them, General. Full details, within fifty kilometres. All surrounding areas contacted also, according to your last instructions.’
‘And nothing’s missing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well. Every one of those to be rechecked, too — confirmed. These short-haul routes you say he knows best — I’ve been looking them over. A lot of scattered developments. This one here — Anyuysk. What’s doing there?’
‘Various works. We had the local police check them out.’
‘Hmm. And beyond it?’
‘South — a few small places. They were all checked. And east, nothing till Provodnoye. Also checked — a truck delivered a load there Saturday.’
‘This river in between, the ice road. What’s near it?’
‘Nothing — the odd trapper’s hut.’
The general looked up and stared at him. Then he turned to his aides. The colonel was stretched on the sofa, the others in easy chairs; all hollow-eyed, but alerted now at his gaze.
‘The odd trapper’s hut?’ the general asked, quietly.
‘Tiny shelters,’ the chief of militia said placatingly. ‘Maybe three or four. Spread over a hundred kilometres — well away from the banks. For trappers. He couldn’t get to them.’
‘Do the trappers have vehicles?’
‘No, General. Trappers don’t have vehicles.’
‘What do they have — dogs, sleds?’
‘Yes. Dog sleds. Where could he go with a dog sled?’
‘God knows where he could go with a dog sled! Find out! Trappers scout around. Maybe they’ve seen something. Go there. Cover that area. Cover this stretch from — where is it? Anyuysk. Anyuysk to Provodnoye. Volodya, I believe I could manage a drink now,’ he said to his junior aide. ‘And you — sit down. There are more areas like this. Have you got a notebook? Start writing down in your notebook.’
It was well after 4 a.m. before the chief of militia got away but before five the sturdy vehicles of his force, their searchlights mounted on top, were off on their missions, the first of them bound for Anyuysk, and for the little tributary that branched off to Provodnoye.
In the cave, he had done what he could. A screwdriver at the carburettor, and a series of fiddles with the distributor, had brought down the revs and evened out the note.
He still didn’t like the sound of it. It was too noisy. He knew he had to get it out on the track for a proper test, but was nervous about moving it at all. It could let him down after half a kilometre.
He bent over the engine, revving up and down. After all, a new engine … Maybe it had to settle in.
He let it run for five minutes and took it out.
He ran on his sidelights, eyes adjusting to the dark. He went towards Provodnoye, made a kilometre, tried all the gears, tried the brakes. The bobik slewed left when braked hard. And the suspension was too stiff; it would give trouble on rough ground. He reversed a fair distance, stopped, turned, went back, passed the cave. On a high bank beyond he tried out the lights. Also a bit out of true. He decided to forget the lights. They worked, high beam and low, it was enough.
He drove back to the cave. It was now 2.30 a. m., and he needed a rest. But the brakes and suspension had to be attended to first. He knew them inside out but it still took time. And another test outside. Then it was finally done, as final as it was going to be, and he got into the sleeping bag: 4 a.m.
But now he couldn’t sleep; and at five he gave up and went into the last routines.
He climbed on the bobik and took down the block and tackle. He fixed the other seat. He stowed everything he had brought with him in the back; all the loose cartons and packing, the engine harness, the stove, all his supplies.
Then there was only the curtaining, and the lighting. He dismantled the circuit — the flex, the plugs, the bulbs — until there was no light and he used the torch. The generator went in last.
He took the bobik out, directed its headlights into the cave and walked in for a final inspection. In the harsh beam he could see the plug holes showing in the roof and the walls. But frost would soon cover them.
Six a.m. on his watch.
He went, and didn’t look back.
By 6.30 the Tchersky militia were threading a tortuous way down the tributary from Anyuysk to Provodnoye, and cursing hard. Even with the big headlights, even with the top-mounted searchlight, it was difficult to see the bends until you were on them. The navigator was counting bends.
‘Cut the lights!’ he shouted suddenly.
The driver cut the lights and stopped.
‘What the fuck!’ he said, alarmed.
‘There’s a car!’
‘Where?’
‘A flicker. Stop the engine.’
The driver stopped the engine, and they both sat peering in the dark. The navigator opened his window. Dead silence.
‘You’re seeing things,’ the driver told him presently.
‘There was a flicker.’
‘Our flicker. Where is it now?’
‘It’s gone now.’
‘That’s right!’ The driver switched everything on again and got moving, swearing.
But there had been another flicker. Porter had cut his lights, and now sat watching those of the militia. They were moving again and he could hear the engine note. He was barely half a kilometre away. He had made it just in time.
In the dark he found a cigarette and lit it.
A few minutes more and they’d have met head on! He’d been going slowly, searching for the stream. And by God’s grace had found it — minutes before!