There is no mortar bombardment round the station. Relative calm reigns here. The station hall is filled with guerrillas and civilians. They all are getting into the passenger carriages and goods wagons. The locomotives are bathed in steam and smoke. They radiate heat and power. You can hear the locomotives’ hissing and regular rhythmic breathing.
“If there’s anything that you need in your office, go and get it,” says Geľo to Telgarth. “But hurry.”
“Of course I do,” says Telgarth. “I have a computer there. All my work’s on it. Even a bit of constitution that I started devising just a few days ago.”
“Right,” says Geľo, though it’s clear he has no idea what Telgarth is on about. “Put it in the HQ carriage. It’s the one just behind the locomotives. But be quick. The mercenaries will be here in a few minutes.”
Telgarth runs to his office. He takes the computer and printer and puts them in the HQ carriage. Then he goes back for a few pieces of clothing and a hunting rifle. An explosion comes from outside. Telgarth looks out of the window. From every street leading to the railway station square the guerrillas, pushed out by the mercenaries, are retreating.
“Move faster,” shouts Geľo in the corridor. “We leave in a moment.”
Telgarth runs through the hall and into the empty station hall. Guerrillas are getting on the train through every door and window and settling onto the flat beds of the goods wagons. The whole train bristles with weapons. The locomotive sounds the long departure call. Freddy gets into the HQ car.
Shooting now comes from the immediate surroundings of the station. The noise of the shots echoes among the station hall columns, veneered in fake marble. The last guerrillas run in. The locomotives puff and the creaking train begins to move. Armed men jump on the train; they grab proffered hands, handles and railings.
Pulled by two locomotives, the train gathers speed and shoots out of the station hall. Freddy can see a group of mercenaries entering the empty hall. A flash of fire comes from their weapons. A few bullets drum on the carriages. One guerrilla clutches his belly and falls onto the track. But the other shots miss.
The train hurls through the suburbs of New Bystrica, rattling over the points. Then the rattling stops. A long straight track opens up in front of them, aimed at the very heart of taiga. The city and its columns of smoke stay far behind them.
“We’ll be back soon,” Geľo stubbornly threatens the vanishing silhouette of the city. “And then we’ll stay for good!”
Freddy finally has time to collect himself. The guerrillas have managed to load all the important equipment onto the train, including a generator. Nothing is missing.
“And where are we going now?” Freddy asks.
“Up north,” says Geľo. “As far as we can. The mercenaries may pursue us, but they don’t stand a chance. At least not on the track. There are no working locomotives left in Űŕģüllpoļ. We chose the most powerful ones and blew up the boilers of the others with hand grenades. We’ll leave the train on the north coast. It’ll be fine there. Local hunters will lend us sledges to get us to Kresan. He’s got weapons, ammunition, and other supplies. Whatever the Czechs brought to Űŕģüllpoļ by submarine and by air has had to be left there. Now we’re short of munitions.”
“To Kresan?” Telgarth asks: dark foreboding comes over him.
“Yes, to Kresan,” says Geľo indifferently. “We’ll wait for the mercenaries there.”
“How do you know they’ll come?” Telgarth asks.
“They’ll come,” Geľo says. “You lured them into that trap.”
“How do you know?” Telgarth is shocked.
“Mäodna told me before he played dead,” replies Geľo. “The Junjans will think that we fled to the northern islands to hide. Some of them will follow us up there and some, led by Tökörnn Mäodna, will set out for Kresan’s settlement, as you thought they would. And we’ll be lying in wait for them. We’ll destroy them and take Tökörnn Mäodna prisoner.”
“He’ll be mine,” Telgarth’s eyes flash.
“Have it your way,” says Geľo and looks Telgarth in the eye with a gaze that forces him to lower his eye.
The track meanders like a snake through picturesque hills. The locomotives, climbing uphill, hiss with fatigue. Geľo is silent, looking out of the window. One day all this country will be free.
Telgarth lies down on one of the benches. He rolls his coat, makes a pillow out of it, wraps himself in furs and lies down. The exhaustion of the last days has left its mark. Soon he falls into a restless, intermittent sleep.
The guerrillas drink rough moonshine and clean their weapons.
The train puts the mountain ridge behind it: now it flies at maximum speed across the endless taiga. Suddenly the brakes squeal and the bottle of moonshine falls off the table. They all have to hold on to their seats.
Geľo looks out of the window.
“There’s a fire on the track ahead of us,” he says and turns to Telgarth. “We were talking about traps; it may be a trap for us there.”
But Telgarth does not even wake up. His hands and face twitch inconspicuously, as he tries to get over his horrible experiences.
Geľo reaches for a submachine gun and gets ready to shoot. The burning fire has already caught the attention of the guerrillas. The train stops, its brakes squealing, forty or fifty metres before the burning twigs.
“Careful,” shouts Geľo; he get out, aims his weapon and, using the hot and hissing locomotives for cover, stealthily approaches the fire. The others follow.
The fire turns out to have been lit by a ragged, hairy man in dirty European clothes. He is lying by the track with matches in his hands. He is shivering with cold; his cracked lips and burning forehead suggest high fever. The stranger has a backpack and a bag with fishing tackle sticking out. The guerrillas reconnoitre the surroundings, but can’t see anyone else.
The man can’t talk. They put him in the HQ carriage and search his luggage.
“Telgarth,” says Sirovec-Molnár and shakes Telgarth’s shoulder.
Telgarth opens his eye with an effort. His entire body is aching.
“Look what he had in his backpack,” says Sirovec-Molnár. “This could be of interest to you.”
He gives Telgarth a dirty Slovak Republic passport and a crumpled and much folded piece of shiny paper. It is the article from Stern about Telgarth with photographs and an interview.
“Who had what in a backpack?” Telgarth is bewildered.
“There was a fire on the track and a man lying next to it,” explains Sirovec-Molnár. “So we put him on the train. And he had this in his backpack.”
“He’s sure to be a Junjan spy,” says Telgarth without thinking and still half-asleep. “Shoot him and throw him off the train.”
He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
“I think you should take a look at it anyway,” says Geľo obstinately.
Telgarth sighs. He starts casually going through the things that Sirovec-Molnár gave him. The green Slovak passport attracts his attention.
“Look at that, a fellow-countryman,” he thinks.
For a moment he thinks about the fate of his own passport. He must have lost it when the Junjans imprisoned him as a reporter. He didn’t have it in the labour camp.
Telgarth opens the passport and he thinks he must be dreaming. He fixes his eye on it and then leaps off the bench.
“URBAN!” he shouts.
Grimacing painfully, he hobbles to the man. He looks at his face.
The man uncomprehendingly looks into the one eye.
“URBAN!” he shouts and shakes his shoulders. “It’s me, Freddy! How the hell did you get here?”