“Excellent!” Axelson’s eyes light up. But Rufus goes on.
“My bad news is that the amount of fuel may not be quite enough to get us right across the Caspian Sea to Iran. You saw what happened in the desert – we can’t risk running out of fuel above the water! So we have two options. We can wait here for more fuel to become available, but Dmitri thinks that might take several days. Or we could make one more refuelling stop, somewhere further south on the shore of the Caspian.”
Mrs Sirko has put on her reading glasses: she looks at Rufus over the top of them, with raised eyebrows.
“Before you start planning your escape from Russia, young man, I think that Miss Frocester, at least, would like to hear my son’s letter. Sit, please, and have some patience.”
She picks up the letter, and begins to read.
“Dearest Mother
I hope you are well. You will be pleased to hear that I am in good health, my arm has healed entirely, and I am being well treated here in the prison at Baku.
Please do not worry on my account. I am sure that the mistake of my arrest will soon be corrected, and I will be released. And of course, the war with Germany is now over, and that means the end of my active military service. So when I am set free, I will be able to return home to you.
When I was brought here, I had a few glimpses of the sea. It was wonderful to see the Caspian again, even though Baku is a far cry from Astrakhan. But the distance is not in fact that great. So, once I am free, my journey to rejoin you will be a short one.
Unfortunately, this letter must be brief. Please give my love and best wishes to all the family, and all members of the Host, and assure them that I am being well treated. And, I have a request.
A young American lady, Miss Agnes Frocester, is investigating the Svea Håkansson murder, and has gathered important evidence, which she will share, if she can, with the Swedish government. They may make representations on my behalf, because they will wish to see the correct person brought to justice for the crime.
I would be grateful if you could write a letter to the Swedish government, to submit one piece of information to be added to that evidence. This is my testimony.
When we were in Moscow, we met my former colleague, Mr Bukin, who gave us his account of events on the day of the Håkansson murder. Mr Bukin told us that he was in the library of the main Dacha at the imperial estate of Tri Tsarevny, talking with the Tsarina, when he heard the shot that killed Miss Håkansson.
As Mr Bukin was telling his story, I recalled something I did not get a chance to mention, because I was arrested immediately afterwards.
When we heard the shot fired at Tri Tsarevny, I was in the ‘Third Princess’ house on the lake with Mr Grigor Rasputin. I went to the porch of Rasputin’s house, and looked out to see what was happening.
I looked all around. When I looked up at the main Dacha, I saw a window being opened. Then, two figures appeared in it. Although they were far away, I am certain that I recognised the Tsarina, dressed in white, and Mr Bukin, standing next to her at the window. He was much too far away to shoot at Miss Håkansson.
Therefore, this is a solid alibi for Mr Bukin, and corroborates his own account of events.
If for any reason the Tsarina is unavailable as a witness, then this information may be useful. It does not of course help my own case, but I would not be at all surprised if the random finger of accusation was suddenly pointed at Mr Bukin instead of me. If that happens, my testimony may help to establish his innocence.
For the second time this morning, I see tears in Mrs Sirko’s eyes. I hear a single sob, then she bursts out. “You see! That is so like Yuri! – to spend most of his precious letter trying to help that Mr Bukin.”
The professor mutters quietly. “If the Tsarina is unavailable… prophetic words indeed.”
But I can’t help myself: my question comes straight out. “So – Yuri is in Baku. Where is that?”
Mrs Sirko looks sadly at me. “Far away to the south, beyond any of the Cossack lands. I know no-one who has ever been there.”
But Rufus smiles. “It’s not really that far, by air. What’s more, it’s covered on our map. There are oilfields there; Baku is the Texas of Russia. And where there’s oil, there’s airplane fuel.”
The wind is in my face. Thousands of feet below our aircraft, fishing boats bob on the surface of the Caspian Sea. The water stretches out below us, like a vast blue canvas. But a few minutes ago, a long coastline came into sight on the horizon. Now we can see it growing closer every moment. Beyond the thin line of a yellow beach, the land is covered with a dense, dark forest. The professor shouts to Rufus.
“Where’s the airfield?”
“My map shows it next to the oil wells.”
We’re flying lower now, and suddenly I realise: the forest is man-made. The derricks of oil wells stand up like clusters of trees; they are shaped like tall, thin pyramids. Within minutes, we’re above them, and ahead we can see an expanse of smooth baked earth; our landing place. The wheels bump and rumble along, and we slow to a halt.
It’s not like Orenburg: no-on appears, and the airfield seems deserted. We get down from the airplane and walk towards a shed that, perhaps, functions as an office. It’s completely empty. Rufus looks at us with raised eyebrows.
“An airfield with no ground crew! We’ll have to go and search for some sign of life.”
Beyond the shed, we walk towards the towering derricks. They are all covered with wooden clapboards, I guess to protect them from the weather. From here on the ground, they look like tapering, four-sided wooden chimneys. The derricks are packed literally side by side, like a chessboard with twice the proper number of chessmen.
We follow a path which threads its way through the derricks: it turns into a narrow, raised causeway of wooden planks. I can see why the walkway is raised above the ground: in the few places where there is bare earth, it is mixed with spilt oil into a slimy sludge. The soil is a victim of the greedy rush to extract every drop of ‘black gold’ from this land. The noise of the pumping grows with every step we take, as does the thick, heavy smell.
Ahead of us on the causeway we see a figure. It’s a familiar sight: a man on guard. It is no surprise at all to see a rifle in his hands. He wears the usual red sash of the Red Guards. Rufus smiles and extends a hand.
“We’re in an aircraft: we’ve just landed, and we need to refuel.”
“Come with me.” The man isn’t unfriendly: he beckons to us, and we follow him deeper into the oilfield, among even more densely packed derricks. The clanging and banging of the pumping is a crazy cacophony. Finally we come to a small office, its walls and windows black with oily soot.
“Wait in there, please.”
“Will you get someone who is authorized to provide us with the fuel? We can pay.”
As we step into the office, Rufus shows the man his wallet, which is stuffed with notes. It’s half the remnant of the money the Bolsheviks provided me in Moscow. The other half I’m keeping back, in case anything goes wrong and we still need money.
It’s horribly hot and stuffy in the office. The clanking of the oil pumps is just as loud in here. We stand with sweat running down our faces as the man looks silently at the money. His mouth hardly moves, but I can tell by his eyes that he’s impressed. After a few seconds he says “There will be no problems for you. Wait here – I will sort it out.”
As the man disappears, Rufus beams with joy at us, but the professor looks more wary. “There is a English phrase, is there not, about counting your chickens before they are hatched? I will not relax until we touch down on Iranian soil.”