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.