The professor and I are silent: anything we say could make things worse. Two of the men are now standing behind Rufus. They are not holding him – but they could grab him at any moment.
Rufus asks again. “Could we see the telegram, please?”
A few seconds later, all seven of us are marching towards the office. We enter, and I shudder as the last man to come through the office door turns a key in the lock.
One of the men holds up a piece of paper: we all look at it.
Orenburg Airfield
The captured White Army propaganda aircraft disappeared overnight Stop It may have been stolen by hostile forces Stop
Red Guards 5th division
Kamensk Stone Gates Airfield
Rufus tries a smile. “Well, that’s clear.”
The men look at him; one steps forward. “It’s crystal clear. The plane was stolen: now you’ve turned up with it. So there is only one explanation—”
“No, no.” Rufus continues smiling, almost laughing. “You have it all wrong. I arrived at Kamensk last night, ready to fly this airplane to Moscow, via a refuelling stop in Orenburg. The Red Guards at Kamensk were all asleep—”
“Nonsense. A pilot is going to fly today, in a small plane, from here to Kamensk. He will then fly the big airplane back here.”
“That was the old plan; things have changed. I am covering this mission now. Can we have our fuel, please? We need to get on.”
The men are silent. Rufus speaks again, but this time I hear an edge in his voice. His fear is beginning to show.
“If we were working for the White Army, and we stole that airplane, we’d hardly fly to Orenburg, would we? Everyone knows this is a Bolshevik base.”
Again, the four men don’t answer him. They are looking at the professor and me.
“Who are you?”
Axelson steps forward. His normally serious face is transformed into a charming smile.
“My companion and I are on our way to Moscow, and this gentleman is taking us there. Which is why we need to refuel, urgently.”
The men look even more suspiciously at the three of us. But the professor continues, his voice genial. “You see, we have an urgent appointment with Comrade Lenin.”
There’s a scornful reply. “You know Lenin?”
“Of course I do.” The professor’s voice is silky. “Look at this.” He reaches into his waistcoat pocket, and takes out his letter from Lenin, flashing it briefly before their eyes. The crest of the St Petersburg Soviet, the Bolshevik Party stamp and Lenin’s signature are clearly visible.
They eye him suspiciously. “If that letter is genuine – what does it say? Let us read it.”
“I can’t possibly let you do that! You appear to be Bolsheviks – but you could be anyone, dressed up!”
“We’re not.”
The professor looks at each of the men’s faces in turn. His voice is quiet but firm. “If we are to trust you, then by the same token, you must trust us. Have faith in Comrade Lenin. There is a good reason for the change of plan with the aircraft. Now, our pilot here needs to take us on our onward journey.”
Three of the men nod, but one sticks to his guns. “What about the telegram? The message reported the theft of this airplane. Are the guards at Kamensk joking?”
Axelson’s air is that of a patient man dealing with a mild annoyance. “Our pilot tried to explain to you what happened at Kamensk. We arrived at the Kamensk airfield at dusk yesterday. But we found the guards very much the worse for wear, after too much vodka. They were all in a drunken stupor. Seeing that the aircraft had enough fuel to get to Orenburg, we simply took off. Even if we had roused those men, they would have been in no state to help us prepare for take-off, so we did everything ourselves.”
The professor pauses, then adds, with emphasis “Look at it from the Kamensk guards’ point of view. Left to themselves, they decide to drink instead of guarding the airplane. Then they wake to find it gone. So they panic, and send that telegram.”
This time, we see four nods. One of the men begins a long apology. An hour later, we are climbing into the sky above Orenburg.
26
The Astrakhan Host
“So where do we go now?” I’m shouting over the wind and the engines.
Rufus turns and yells back. “Well obviously not Moscow! But just so you know, Moscow is around seven hundred miles due west from here.”
I hear Axelson’s voice. “Have you got maps of anywhere south of here?”
“Yes.”
“We should aim for Iran, Mr du Pavey. The Persian Empire is officially neutral in the war, but in fact they are friendly to the British. We will be safe there. How far away is it?”
“About a thousand miles. We won’t manage it without refuelling.”
“Are all the airfields marked on your map?”
“Yes. But there are none due south of here… Ah. Here’s one to the south-west. It’s around five hundred miles from here. We should be able to get there – although flying into this headwind will cost us heavily in fuel.” He holds up a portion of the map, gripping it in the furious wind, and points. I see the name “Astrakhan”.
It’s early afternoon: the sun has moved round, and is shining into our eyes. Ahead, the horizon is a hazy blur, but it’s the ground we’re flying over that I’ve noticed. The forests are left far behind; huge featureless steppes sprawl below us, brown and arid in the summer sun. Here and there are strips of yellow. The professor points. “That must be the start of the Ryn Desert.”
I’ve never heard of such a place. But desert it clearly is: lines of long dunes, all running east to west as if aligned by the wind, stretch out below us. But far ahead in the haze is a long green strip. I point at it.
“Where’s that?”
Axelson answers me. “The valley of the Volga, Miss Agnes! And look, that faint blue colour away to our left is the Caspian Sea. So Astrakhan’s not far – maybe twenty miles, across this desert.”
Rufus turns in his seat. Under his goggles, I can’t see the expression on his face. But he shouts, loud and clear.
“We’re not going to make it to Astrakhan. Can you both look down on the ground, for a landing place?
“What?”
“A flat area – preferably not too sandy! Because we won’t get as far as the Astrakhan airfield.”
I see the professor’s alarmed eyes behind his goggles. Rufus yells an explanation.
“It’s this strong headwind: the aircraft is guzzling fuel. The gauge is nearly on zero. I could try to reach Astrakhan… but if I do, we face the risk of running out of fuel, with nowhere to land. Better to look for a place below – the first spot we can safety touch down.”
“And what then?”
“I don’t know. But it will be better than crashing.”
We’re lower now, flying parallel to the rippled ridges. I see the sand, spilling down into deep hollows, then rising again to the crests of the dunes. It’s like flying above huge waves in a yellow ocean. There’s no landing place anywhere.
“What’s that?” The professor is shouting and pointing ahead.
Rufus steers the plane towards a glimpse of white, like a patch of snow in the desert. It gets closer, bigger. The plane swoops low, and our wheels almost graze the crumbling crest of a sandbank. Seconds later, we’re flying through a deep trench between two tall dunes. On both sides, they rise high above our wingtips.
On the floor of the trench, perhaps a mile ahead, is the white area: a blank, pancake-flat patch. In a few seconds, we’re above it; the plane’s shadow is a black shape, coasting along underneath us, getting closer every second…
We hit the ground, juddering and skidding; the airplane slides and skitters uncontrollably across a crust of ice-like whiteness. Then the wheels dig into layers of crystals, turning and gripping. We plow forwards through the white deposits, slowing to an unexpectedly gently halt.