Kolymsky Heights: Simplified Edition

KOLYMSKY

HEIGHTS by Lionel Davidson

Simplified by Kieran McGovern General Editors: Andy Hopkins and Jocelyn Potter

Addison Wesley Longman Limited Edinburgh

Gate,

Essex CM20 2JE,

Harlow, England

and Associated Companies throughout the world.

© L i o n e l D a v i d s o n 1994 T h i s edition © A d d i s o n W e s l e y L o n g m a n L i m i t e d 1997 T h e author has asserted his m o r a l rights All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise,

without the prior written permission of the Publishers. First published 1994 u n d e r the title Kolymsky Heights by W i l l i a m H e i n e m a n n L i m i t e d , one of the publishers in Random House U K Limited T h i s edition first published in L o n g m a n Fiction 1997

I S B N 0 582 2 7 8 4 7 3 Set in A d o b e G r a n j o n 10.5pt Produced through L o n g m a n Malaysia, PP

Acknowledgements W e are grateful t o A d d i s o n W e s l e y L o n g m a n L i m i t e d for permission to use in the W o r d List definitions adapted f r o m the third edition of the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English © L o n g m a n G r o u p L i m i t e d (1995). Cover photograph © S O A / A n d r e w J Song C o v e r d e s i g n by S a g e Associates

page Introduction

i

Map

iv

Chapter 1

T h e Postman and the Professor

1

Chapter 2

North by North-West

11

Chapter 3

The N e w Chukchee

19

Chapter 4

The Party

25

Chapter 5

A Dangerous Journey

35

Chapter 6

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

42

Chapter 7

The Ring and the Book

56

Chapter 8

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

66

Chapter 9

Kolymsky Heights

77

Chapter 10

Among the Eskimos

87

Chapter 11

Crossing the Line

92

Chapter 12

The Circle Has No End

102

Word List

104

Activities

106

Lionel Davidson was born in the north of England in 1922. D u r i n g the Second World W a r he served in the Royal N a v y and for the next thirteen years he worked as a magazine journalist and editor. He married in 1949. He has travelled all over the world and, for a time, lived in Israel. In 1989, after the death of his first wife, he married again, and he now lives in north London. He has two grown-up sons, one a designer and the other an airline pilot. Davidson's novels have w o n him fame and popularity in many countries. His first, The Night of Wenceslas (1960), was an exciting story of secret agents set in what was then Czechoslovakia, at a time when relations between the countries under Soviet influence and the West were at their most dangerous. T h e book was well received and the detail of its settings was remarkable, especially because Davidson had never visited Czechoslovakia

himself.

The Rose of Tibet, a

story of travel

and

adventure, followed in 1962. Davidson has written many different kinds of novel in a variety of styles. His later writings reveal more philosophical elements. A m o n g these are A Long Way to Shiloh (1966), set in Israel in the 1960s, and Smith's Gazelle (1971), which tells of the efforts to preserve a group of animals under threat. Novels about modern Jewish life and politics include Making Good Again (1968) and The Sun Chemist (1976). T h e first of these is set in post-war Germany and tackles the theme of N a z i s m . The Sun Chemist comes close to science fiction and concerns the search for a lost formula that can free any country possessing it from dependence on oil. The Chelsea Murders (1978) is a completely different book again, a mystery story set in London's art world. A number of Davidson's novels have w o n international prizes. He has also written many short stories, and under the pen name of David Line

Kolymsky Heights

he has written several books for younger readers. In the adventure story Under Plum Lake (1980), for example, the schoolboy hero, Barry Gordon, visits a lost world under the sea. Davidson spent three years writing Kolymsky Heights. W h e n it was published in 1994 it received immediate praise for the remarkable storyline and the high quality of its construction. It became a bestseller in many countries and a film of the book is planned. T h e book is popular for its fast-moving action and well-researched detail, its unusual settings and its even more unusual hero. T h e action takes place in contrasting parts of the world. It begins in the comfortable and privileged surroundings of an Oxford college in summer. F r o m there we are taken on a journey to Canada and then Asia that ends inside the Arctic Circle, in north-eastern Siberia, at one of the remotest places on earth. Here the winter nights last for almost twentyfour hours and produce some of the lowest temperatures in the world. T h e ground is almost permanently frozen and rivers are impassable for more than eight months of the year. T h e small numbers of local peoples of the region, w h o include the Chukchee, the Evenk, the Koryak and the Yakut, traditionally lead a hard existence dependent on herding and fishing. T h i s is the perfect setting for a top-secret research station, as isolated as it is possible to be from the outside world. Professor Lazenby, an Oxford academic, receives in his mail one day an envelope posted in Sweden, mysteriously containing only two small pieces of paper which are apparently blank. Lazenby is confused and passes them to Philpott, a former student of his, whom he now believes to be involved with the British secret services. T h e strange and urgent message that Philpott reveals seems to come from a Russian scientist. Lazenby thinks back to a conference held in Oxford seventeen years before, where he met a Russian scientist, Professor Rogachev, and a young dark-haired man k n o w n only by the name of Raven. Soon after the conference Rogachev disappeared. Can it be that years later Rogachev

Introduction

is trying to contact Lazenby again? W h a t can the task be that is so desperate and so secret that the message reaches him by such unusual means? It becomes apparent that the man k n o w n as Raven is the only person who can help, but his task will be a difficult and extremely dangerous one.

Kolymsky Heights

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The Postman and the Professor

They arrived, without a letter, in a dirty old envelope. T h e stamp was Swedish, and the address was written in shaky capitals on a thin piece of paper stuck to the front.

PROFESSOR G F LAZENBY OXFORD ENGLAND

All that the envelope contained were tw o tiny pieces of cigarette paper, both blank. Professor Lazenby examined them for a few moments. There was nothing on them, but the slight irregularities on the surfaces gave him the idea there was something significant about them. He called his secretary into the office. "Could you get me a cup of coffee?" he said. "Also .. . maybe . . . that fellow from Scientific Services. You've got his number." Philpott, the man from Scientific Services, was a former student of the professor who now worked for what he called "a sort of government body". Scientific Services sometimes supplied Professor Lazenby with information that was useful for his research. In return, Lazenby occasionally told them interesting things he heard at international conferences.

Lazenby met his old student for a drink at an Oxford pub. T h e y sat quietly in the corner while Philpott took out various papers. One was a photograph of the envelope and the pieces of cigarette paper. Another was an enlargement of the address. " T h e envelope is Swedish," he said, "but the ink isn't. T h e cigarette papers are Russian. We think a sailor posted them. We believe he was

Kolymsky Heights

given the cigarettes and told to remove the tobacco, and then put the papers in an envelope and send them off. T h e address was written on this third paper. It was in faint pencil, which you probably didn't notice." "I didn't," Lazenby admitted. "Well, it was there. T h e sailor — if that's w h o he was — had to stick the paper onto the envelope and go over the pencil in pen . . . N o w , the message was written in code on the other cigarette papers. Here it is." Lazenby looked at a new sheet.

I am alive in the north country, in dark waters. Why do you not answer me? The eyes of all shall be opened and the people shall no more sit in darkness. Send me the man that speaks the tongues of the north, And that understands the science of every living thing. Do not delay.

" H a v e you any idea what this is about, Professor?" " N o n e at all. Tell me yours." " W e believe it's from a Russian scientist, a biologist or someone in the life sciences, anyway. He knows you, or of you, and he wants you to know about something he's discovered; something very important. We think he has met you, perhaps at an international conference." Philpott handed Lazenby a list. "I wonder what you k n o w about these people." T h e r e were ten names on the list, all distantly familiar to Lazenby; all in biological sciences. " T h e y ' r e a l l . . . from a long time ago, of course," Lazenby said. It was a very long time, and he had thought most of the men on the list were dead. One of them had certainly had a serious motor accident. "I expect I met them all." " W o u l d they appear in your old diaries — from five, perhaps ten years a g o ? "

The Postman and the Professor

"Highly unlikely. W h a t would you be looking for?" "Meetings. Perhaps some mention of the other chap?" "Which other chap?" "He wants you to send him someone." Philpott pointed to the paper. " 'Send me the man . . .' We think it must be a particular man. Someone you met together, or discussed. Is that possible?" "Yes. I suppose it is. But don't you think it would have been more sensible to send the cigarette papers to that other m a n ? " "I do. Much more sensible," Philpott agreed. "Either he doesn't k n o w where that man is or he doubts that he has your contacts." "Nobody to show the cigarette papers to?" "Exactly. We think that the writer's name is on this list." "Why?" "They all had contact with you at one time or another. A n d they are now all out of circulation. T h e y aren't in hospital, not over this period of time, and they haven't retired. A n d they're not dead, with the possible exception of a couple of doubtful cases. Almost certainly they are working on something." "Yes. W h o says all this?" " T h e Americans. T h e y k n o w more than anyone about w h o is w o r k i n g where and on what. But this man is doing something somewhere they don't k n o w about: at an unknown establishment. T h a t bothers them. It bothers them very much."

T h e u n k n o w n establishment was assumed to be biological, concerned with military biology. At the C I A * headquarters in Langley, near Washington, a team of specialists were trying to hunt it down. They started by assuming that it must have independent sources of

*CIA: an organisation, funded by the US government, designed to defend American national security

Kolymsky Heights

water and power; also chemical stores and various kinds of security arrangements. All this needed people, and places for them to live, and some means of access, probably by air. Above all, it needed isolation. T h e "north country", evidently Siberia, remained even in modern times unmatched for isolation. Over the land lay deep snow and ice all winter, and few roads were usable even in the summer. Most transport went by air or river, and access to security areas was available only with official documents. This provided the first problem. If the place was so hard to get to, how could anyone from outside travel there? A n d , just as important, how had the cigarette papers been sent out? T h e conclusion reached was that a foreign sailor had received the message at one of the Siberian ports. Foreign seamen were not, however, permitted on shore, which meant that another person was used, someone with access to the ship — and also to the research station.

It was while he was away on a fishing trip that one of the names on Philpott's list suddenly came back to Lazenby. Rogachev. His memory of the man was very cloudy: a red-haired fellow, rather too personal, a joker and a drinker. Most of the Russians drank a lot, but Lazenby only occasionally had a small whisky or glass of wine. A n d they had got him drunk. At a conference somewhere. At night. A few weeks later, back in Oxford, the professor remembered more. There had been a young fellow — with Asian features — talking to Rogachev. T h e y had spoken mostly in Russian, but also in English. They had been talking about Siberia. Lazenby k n e w this was important. He couldn't remember more of what happened, but Rogachev was obviously important. A n d the young Indian might be.

The Postman and the Professor

At Langley an elderly lawyer called

Murray

Hendricks

was

examining a very useful file the department held on Professor Rogachev. It stopped suddenly when the Russian biologist had gone missing, seventeen years ago. There had been a motoring accident, at Pitsunda on the Black Sea, in which Rogachev's wife had been killed and he himself had been injured. After that — nothing. Hendricks looked up the man's activities before the accident, and found that the week before he had been at a conference at Oxford. In fact, Lazenby and Rogachev had met at Oxford on at least three occasions. Something had happened at Oxford, and another person had been involved. T h e message was asking this other person — a Russian speaker, and most probably a Russian — to go to Russia. Getting someone into a closed area of Siberia seemed to be impossible, and yet Rogachev thought it could be done. A n d he thought he k n e w the man w h o could do it. T h e only person who could get into a security area of Siberia was a Siberian person. More specifically a Siberian native person.

Months passed without any progress in locating the u n k n o w n establishment. T h e n , in March, film taken from an American satellite arrived at Langley. It showed a major explosion followed by a fire spread over a large area. T h i s was very surprising, for what they had believed to be a weather station was not k n o w n to house explosives. Even more unusual was what the satellite pictures showed happening in the hours after the fire. A large group of men were standing in line, each with his hands on the shoulders of the man in front. T h e y were bandaged about the eyes, and dressed only in underwear — their clothes evidently abandoned during their escape from the burning buildings. Slightly apart from this line was another man, also in his underwear, but with no bandage. T h i s individual had something in his hands, and his head went up and down while those of the other men turned towards him and away.

Kolymsky Heights

An expert in body movement and measurement was called in to study the enlarged pictures. He concluded that what was in the man's hand was a list; a list that was being used to call out names. But there were some aspects of the men's physical appearance that the expert found impossible to explain. T h e men w h o stood in their underclothes in the Siberian ice had arms that were too long. There was something not right about the shape of their legs, too. Whichever way he looked at it, the expert was forced to conclude that the " m e n " could not be human.

In April Lazenby again went fishing. One evening, on returning to his hotel, he was very surprised to find Philpott waiting for him with a serious fellow in a suit. "Hello, Professor. I don't think you've met Mr Hendricks. He's got something very interesting for you." Up in Lazenby's room, after dinner, Hendricks showed the professor the satellite photographs of the individuals in line. Lazenby examined them. "Apes," he concluded. " N o , they aren't apes. Not now." Lazenby looked again. "Improved apes?" "Yes, these can talk and read. T h i s one can, anyway. He is reading a list and calling out names. T h e others are answering him." Lazenby stared at him over his glasses for some moments. " Y o u think this is Rogachev's w o r k ? " "It's his place. I can show you." He showed him a large-scale map of the Kolyma region of Siberia — some thousands of miles, he said, from where they had previously been looking. Ringed on it was the symbol for a weather station, and close by the weather station a lake. "Blackpool" had been handwritten over the lake. " T h e local name of the lake is Tcherny Vodi, or 'Dark Waters', but a

The Postman and the Professor

nineteenth-century explorer referred to it as Blackpool. A n d here's Green Cape," Hendricks said, pointing to the map. "It's a port on the Kolyma river, exactly thirty miles from the lake. That's how Rogachev's cigarettes came out." Lazenby looked up from the photographs. "You think that this is what he wants to tell us about?" " N o , I don't. A n i m a l w o r k isn't necessarily secret. T h i s is highly secret — they're hiding it from us. A n d why in the Green Cape? W o u l d you experiment on apes in a place like this?" "Well, the Arctic is not their environment," Lazenby said. "Right. A n d this is the most secret, the least accessible part of the Arctic. We k n o w nothing about this place. N o w that is really worrying." They looked at each other for some moments. Philpott collected his papers. "We need your help," Hendricks said. " W e think we've found the young man you mentioned." He held a hand out and Philpott placed an enlarged photo in it. "Did he look anything like this?" Lazenby looked at the photo. T h e young man of that evening stared back. Wide face, high cheekbones, angry eyes. "Well — that is him! Raven — that's what Rogachev called him." -

"Why?" "I'm not sure. I think it was because he was so dark — and his black

hair." "This fellow is a Canadian Indian. His name's on the back of the photo." Lazenby looked at the back. Dr Johnny Porter. "I don't recognise the name," he said. "But this is Raven: the man I remember from Oxford." "Did he seem to k n o w Rogachev already?" "I don't know. T h e y were talking about Siberia: about languages . . . blindness? Snow blindness, perhaps. Rogachev had worked there, of

Kolymsky Heights

course, and I thought this fellow was probably some kind of native. They were talking Russian rather a lot, and he certainly seemed to k n o w the place

"

"Yes, he k n o w s Siberia. T h e r e isn't any doubt this is who Rogachev wants. Porter won't talk to us. He isn't fond of government officials. We think he might talk to you. Will you talk to h i m ? " "But I hardly k n o w the fellow really." "That's right," Hendricks said. "Nobody does really."

T h e name on his birth certificate was Jean-Baptiste Porteur, but from the age of thirteen he had become plain Johnny Porter. He was a Gitksan Indian, part of a tribe that lived in the Skeena River area of British Columbia, and from a very early age he had shown a great gift for learning languages. At seventeen he went to the University of Victoria, where he took a first-class degree in biology before he was twenty. He had also become involved in politics, campaigning for the Canadian government to return land to various native tribes. He developed an angry distrust of authorities, of their ignorance and broken promises. After his brilliant first degree, Porter disappointed his professors by suddenly abandoning biology. He moved to Montreal to study a new subject: the native Indian cultures of the Arctic region. T h e following year he travelled to Siberia for some months to learn the languages of the tribes there, and on his return he published a book called Comparisons. This established his reputation in the academic world, and the following summer one of his old biology lecturers invited Porter to attend a science conference in Oxford. "After all," he told him, "you were one of us yourself once." Porter, at the time, was a rather unfriendly figure of twenty-three. His head seemed too large, his straight black hair too long, and even at this international gathering his distinctive appearance turned heads. One of

The Postman and the Professor

the other guests approached him. "A Canadian Indian?" said the red-haired Russian. " A n d from the north-west, I think? T h e Skeena River." "Right." "Then you must be Gitksan. Y o u north-westerners still look like our Siberians. Y o u k n o w of them, perhaps?" Unsmiling, Porter replied in Evenk, at which the Russian held up his hands. "Very good! But it's the people I know, my friend, not the language." Lazenby had joined them, and they were soon discussing a variety of topics. T h e n Rogachev had found the drink, but while the Russian could stand it the Englishman could not. T h e other two had walked Lazenby home and Rogachev had arranged a second meeting with the young Indian whom by then he was calling Raven.

Months passed before Lazenby's trip to Canada. A n d so many changes to the arrangements had occurred that he was half out of his mind before he started. This fellow Raven seemed completely out of his mind. He had university jobs two thousand miles apart. He seemed to attend them when he felt like it. He missed lectures, abandoned classes, disappeared into the woods. Lazenby would have kicked him out of his department years ago, but Dr Porter did not seem a person you kicked out so easily. Lazenby flew to Vancouver, where he was met by Hendricks. F r o m Vancouver they flew north to a place called Hazleton on the Skeena River. "This is Porter's home ground — Gitksan Indian country," Hendricks explained over dinner. " H e is around here somewhere, hunting and fishing, apparently." " H o w will we find h i m ? " "He comes to the post office in Hazleton to collect his mail, twice a week. He's expected soon. A n d he sometimes drinks in this hotel."

Kolymsky Heights

" H a v e you spoken to h i m ? " " N o , we want you to make the contact, George. He doesn't trust us — perhaps he's right not to. T h e best thing is to be honest with him: tell him what you know, and hope he'll listen." T h e next evening Lazenby was in the hotel bar when a voice spoke in his ear. "Professor Lazenby? I believe you were looking for me." He looked up to see a large Indian face with unsmiling eyes. "Raven?" He was taller and quieter than Lazenby remembered: very serious, extremely reserved. T h e y had dinner together, and Lazenby watched him across the table. T h e staring young man of the seventies had gone. T h e hair was thinner now, with a pigtail down the back, lengthening the face. Lazenby started by asking if he had met Rogachev again. Porter said that he had spent two nights talking to him on that same visit to Oxford, but had not had contact since. Yet he showed no surprise at Lazenby's story, and made no comment when it was over. " A n y t h i n g you'd like to ask m e ? " said Lazenby. T h e Indian consulted a neat forkful of food. "Rogachev said that I looked like his Siberians. That's why he wants me, I assume. H o w does he suppose I could get there?" " T h i s man Hendricks knows about that. That's Hendricks of the CIA." "These — messages. Y o u have them with y o u ? " " N o , I don't. Hendricks has copies of them, I believe. Will you meet him?" T h e Indian did not answer for a few moments. He did not even look at Lazenby. He just lit a cigarette and smoked it. "Yes. I'll meet him," he said, finally.

North by North-West

For the first two days of September the Suzaku Maru sailed through the Sea of Japan, calling at the port Nigata on the evening of the third. At ten o'clock the next morning she was at sea again, but in the late afternoon one of the crew was suddenly taken ill. " W h o is h e ? " asked the captain. "Ushiba. I think he has food poisoning." By ten o'clock Ushiba was very sick indeed and his skin had turned a strange colour. T h e captain decided that the man needed urgent medical attention. He radioed through to the next port at Otaru. "We have a sick man on board: he needs to come ashore for medical treatment. A n d I will need a new crewman to replace him." T h e Suzaku Maru sailed into Otaru at ten o'clock in the morning. At half past ten Porter was awakened by the owner of his hotel. "Phone for you — the port office." Porter ran d o w n the stairs in his underwear. T h e phone was swinging in the passage. "Sung W o n C h o o ? " said the voice on the phone. "Yes." "A ship needs a crewman — they're going through the Arctic. A r e you interested?" "I might be. W h e n does she come in?" "She's in. H a l f an hour ago." On time then. " W h a t ship?" he said. "Suzaku Maru. If you want her, go there now — I'll let them know. She's sailing in ninety minutes."

On the nineteenth of September the Suzaku Maru sailed through the

Kolymsky Heights

Bering Strait.* As she came round Cape Dezhnev, she radioed her arrival in Russian waters. T h e captain stood at the wheel and the new crewman, Sung, brought him hot soup. "First time north?" the captain asked him. "First time, Captain. Is this Siberia?" "Yes. This region is called C h u k o t k a . " T h e Korean was now looking at the ship's charts. He was a simple fellow and did not seem to understand that this was against the rules. "All right. That's enough," the captain said. " Y o u can go now." Sung, going below, knew that he had less than four hours. He had seen from the chart that they were less than six hundred and seventy-five kilometres from the mouth of the Kolyma. T h e time of arrival depended on their speed. At eight o'clock he went to his room and locked himself in. He took out a knife and cut open a secret pocket in his trousers. T h e tablet was wrapped in plastic in an envelope. It was the same kind that Ushiba had been given, though Ushiba's had been much bigger. He wouldn't be as ill as Ushiba, but he would be very ill indeed. There was the faintest taste, and then it was gone.

A crewman rushed onto the bridge. "Captain, there's some trouble below." " W h a t is it?" " T h e new man. Sung. He's very ill. In Ushiba's bed." T h e captain went below. He found Sung being held by two men as he hung out of his bed and was sick into a bucket. " H o w long has it been going o n ? "

* the Bering Strait: the part of the Arctic Ocean where Russia and the U S A are only eighty-five kilometres apart

North by North-West

"Over two hours." T h e captain thought for a moment. He had lost time and did not want to lose more, but the Korean was obviously very ill and could not stay aboard the ship. There was no option but to take him to somewhere with medical facilities. W h e r e in the middle of the Arctic would he find somewhere to leave Sung? Returning to his o w n room, the captain looked through various handbooks. Somewhere there would be a medical station.

Tchersky: Hospital and Isolation Centre (Call Green Cape)

He called Green Cape and they answered cheerfully. "Suzaku Maru, Suzaku Maru, hello!" "Green Cape, I have a sick man aboard. I need help." "Captain, you are to wait outside Ambarchik. A medical officer will board you there, O K ? " " O K . T h a n k you, Green Cape." Ambarchik was at the eastern mouth of the K o l y m a River. T h e y sailed around to it and when the medical boat arrived they had the ladder out waiting. T h e medical officer, wrapped in a dog-skin coat and cap, came up the ladder. To the captain's surprise it was a woman: a rather serious, bad-tempered woman. She looked d o w n at Sung, while taking off her coat. " H o w long has he been like this?" T h e captain described the history and symptoms of the illness, without mentioning Ushiba. "This man is very ill. I will take him to the isolation centre at Tchersky. I need his documents. Will you wait for h i m ? " " H o w long?" "At least five days." " N o , " the captain said. "There is no time."

Kolymsky Heights

" T h e n I will take his things, also. Where are you heading, Captain?" "Murmansk." "I'll contact them. Of course, if this illness is what I think it is, they won't let you in. I advise you to stay here until we identify it." "But the sea will freeze." " T h e n go on, if you want. I can't stop you. Or turn back. Meanwhile, the first thing is to get this man off the ship." So Sung was loaded into the medical boat and taken upriver to Tchersky. T h e captain took a fast decision. "1820. Ambarchik. Left. General direction Murmansk."

Tchersky, four kilometres south of the river port of Green Cape, was the capital of the Kolymsky district of north-east Siberia. T h o u g h small (population under ten thousand), it had a good hospital. T h e isolation centre was empty when Porter was admitted on 23rd September. T h e hospital's doctors were all specialists, and they were helped by a team of medical officers. Each medical officer was responsible for a particular area; and Medical Officer Komarova was responsible for the lower K o l y m a , including Ambarchik and the coast. At the hospital she registered her patient as a suspected case of yellow fever,* but Porter k n e w nothing of this. For the first two days he was aware of very little. W h e n he w o k e on the third day he found a woman doctor examining him. " D o you speak Russian?" she said. H e r face was faintly familiar. "Little Russian," he said. "Little." "I don't speak Korean or Japanese. You are in hospital. I brought you. Y o u understand?"

* yellow fever: a disease found in parts of Africa, Asia and South America

North by North-West

"Yes. Hospital," he said. She looked him over for a while. "How do you feel?" she said, smiling suddenly. It took him a moment to realise she had said it in English. "OK," he said, and closed his eyes at once. He must have talked in his sleep. He had tried to train himself in advance not to do this. He wondered what he had said. "You ill. Maybe you a little better now." A g a i n English. He decided to keep his eyes shut and presently she went away. He thought about the English, but soon fell asleep. A male doctor came to see him. This man he did not remember at all. The man also spoke to him in English, quite good English. "I am Dr Gavrilov. H o w do you feel n o w ? " "I don't k n o w how I feel. W h a t happened here?" "You were brought in with a fever. T h i s is Tchersky Hospital. You don't remember anything?" "fust — sick. H o w long I am here?" "Three days now. I think you have been ill maybe three days, perhaps a little more. Is it hard for you, speaking English?" "When I speak English?" "A few words in your sleep. I couldn't understand the Korean," Dr Gavrilov said, smiling. "Where my ship?" "Don't worry about it. You're very weak. Rest now." T h e next day the w o m a n doctor came again. "Good. You're much better," she told him in Russian. "I can g o ? " " W h e n you're stronger. You've been very ill." "But they wait for me on my ship." "The ship went." "It went? All my things there!"

Kolymsky Heights

" N o , they're here. We have them." "Well — what happen to m e ? "

It was a good question, and the hospital authorities spent the next two days trying to answer it. T h e seaman was the first foreigner to be admitted to a hospital in the Kolymsky district. Normally patients, on recovery, went home. This one's home was in Korea, some thousands of kilometres away. Sung could not be moved out of the isolation centre, as foreigners were not permitted in the area. Neither could he be moved to the general hospital. T h e patient was also creating considerable problems by his behaviour. In his anger he seemed to forget his English and Russian, shouting at the staff in Korean. T h e hospital director came to see him and explained that they were trying to get him back to Japan. This made him even more angry. " N o Japan! Ship! Ship!" " T h e ship has gone." "Job on ship! Money! No Japan. Ship." "But it isn't here. T h e ship went." "Where?" " T o Murmansk. It's gone." "Murmansk no gone! Wait! My job ship!" At last the hospital director began to understand. T h e man seemed to think the ship would wait for him in Murmansk. Because the ship had now been gone for five days they assumed that it would have left Murmansk. But when he called Green Cape he discovered that the Korean might be right. T h e ship was still three days from Murmansk, a port close to the borders of Finland and Norway. This was very good news. If the ship's captain signed the bills there would be no problem. T h e militia could fly him out to join his beloved ship. T h e following day K o m a r o v a handed her patient and his belongings

North by North-West

over to the militia. T h e militia put him on a flight south to Yakutsk, where there was a connection for Murmansk. A n d at Murmansk, late at night, he was taken to the International Seamen's Hotel, and signed in as a visitor awaiting his ship. Here he was given a locker and a bed, and after the long day slept very well.

Visitors to the hotel were not allowed to go into the city, but an unofficial five-dollar payment to the staff solved this problem. All passports were kept at the hotel, and the system seemed to w o r k well. Porter shared a taxi into the city with two N o r w e g i a n s at eight the following evening. His companions could not understand him, and they were happy to leave him at the first bar. Porter then took another taxi to the airport, where he made three telephone calls, at twelve-minute intervals. T h e n he made a fourth, and let it ring twelve times, when it was answered. He said, in Russian, "I am here."

T h e airport was full of uniformed soldiers. He watched quietly from a seat near the entrance and saw the man arrive thirty minutes later. T h e man also looked like a seaman, and was dressed in heavy winter clothes like Porter. He carried a large bag. T h e man came and sat next to Porter, and the two men started a conversation. T h e new arrival asked Porter to watch his bag while he made a phone call and suggested that they met in the bar. Porter agreed and the man went off. So, presently, did Porter, with the bag, following signs to the toilets. He locked himself in and quickly began work. In the bag was a set of clothing, new documents, some scissors and a hand mirror. He took out the scissors and the hand mirror and cut off his pigtail, which he dropped into the bag. He then scissored away all over his head until all his hair was gone, and shaved off his moustache.

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Porter wasted no time examining his newly clean-shaven face, but immediately changed into his new clothing: a stylish leather jacket, leather boots, and a fur hat. Kolya (Nikolai) Khodyan was a smart dresser. Packing everything of Sung W o n Choo's into the bag, he went across to the bar. T h e seaman was in the busiest corner, as planned. Porter pushed his way through and got himself a drink, and they exchanged a few words. T h e n the man picked up the bag, they nodded to each other in the crowd, and he was gone. Porter remained for a while, finishing his drink, and made his way to the left luggage office. He took out a receipt from his new jacket, collected two more leather cases, and took them over to the check-in desk. In his pocket he had open flight tickets. He handed in his cases and booked the stages of his journey. At midnight the first of his flights was called. T h i s was to Irkutsk. At Irkutsk he changed for Yakutsk. At Yakutsk, in a snowstorm, he took a flight to Tchersky. Three days after leaving it, he was back. This was the second of October, just over a month after his arrival at Narita airport in Japan. He had spent his time there, while waiting for the ship, completing the training he had received at the camp, checking details, improving his Korean — all in preparation for the dangerous mission that lay ahead. It was ten weeks since he had first heard of the Green Cape. He now took a taxi there, and fifteen minutes later let himself into the apartment.

The New Chukchee

He switched the light on, closed the door behind him, and stood quite still, looking and listening. He was in a living room with a faint smell of decaying fruit. T h e place had been empty for four months, its last occupant hurrying out to catch a plane in June. He had left a mess behind — newspapers on the floor, halfopen drawers, old w o r k boots everywhere. He waited some moments longer, then moved to the window. He saw that the port was not visible from here, or even the street. He was at the back of the one-hundred-and-sixty-five apartment building, on the second floor. It was now almost nine o'clock and he felt extremely tired. Apart from the night's sleep at Murmansk he had not stopped moving for three days. He went to the kitchen and found more mess, but decided it could wait until the morning. Tonight, sleep. But the sheet, on closer inspection, showed signs of use, so he changed it first. He found a n e w one in the cupboard, and like everything else in the apartment it was of the highest quality. T h e y lived well, in the Arctic. Alexei Ponomarenko had lived well.

"Alexei! A r e you back, A l e x e i ? " In his sleep he'd heard the ringing and thought himself again in the. hospital. But now there was a knocking at the door, and he went to answer it. It was eight o'clock in the morning. "One minute, I'm coming!" he called. "Alexei! It's good to hear you again. Welcome back!" "Yes, but it's not Alexei," he said. He was smiling as he opened the door. Kolya Khodyan was a smiler — he smiled at difficulties. All this had been researched.

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" O h . " A little old lady was looking at him. Her face was lined, and it was looking up in surprise at the Siberian native with his shaven head. "Isn't Alexei here?" " N o , he's still at the Black Sea. He lent me the place for a while. He can't come just yet." "But — excuse me — you're . . . ?" "Khodyan. Call me Kolya," Porter said, and shook her hand. He hadn't stopped smiling.

In winter the Tchersky Transport Company took over the Green Cape. T h e river had frozen enough for all the shipping to have disappeared, and the dock was now full of the crates unloaded before the rush for open water. T h r o u g h this one small Arctic opening all north-east Siberia was supplied: its gold and diamond mines, its power stations and factories. On the steep hill above the dock, Porter looked down on the activity below. A line of trucks was moving uphill into the storage area. He watched for some time, and then turned and walked through the snow to the administrative block. It was morning but all the lights were on inside, and the entrance was busy with activity. Men and w o m e n were writing, phoning, passing papers to each other and drinking tea. " W h e r e can I find B u k a r o v s k y ? " " T h e road manager? Upstairs. End of the corridor up there. Just follow the noise." T h e noise led him to a door with the words "P. G. B U K A R O V S K Y , R O A D M A N A G E R " written on it. He paused there, uncertain whether to knock or enter, until a girl came out in a hurry. She left the door open for him, and he went in. A man with a thin, tired face was shouting into a phone, his feet on a desk. He was doing several things at once: drinking tea, smoking,

The New Chukchee

coughing, talking to a woman standing above him with an open file. "What do you w a n t ? " This was to Porter, w h o was standing before him, smiling. He carried on smiling, w a v i n g the manager on with his conversation, and looking at the huge maps on the walls. He turned as the phone crashed down. "What's your problem?" the man said. "You want a driver?" "Where are you f r o m ? " "Chukotka." "What are you doing here?" "A favour to Ponomarenko. We met at Batumi. He can't come for a few weeks." "What can you drive?" Porter offered his papers. "Whatever you've got." The phone rang again, and the man answered it. He glanced through the papers. "What trouble are you in at C h u k o t k a ? " "No trouble . . . Look," said Porter, in a friendly voice. "I'm doing Ponomarenko a favour. You too. If you don't want me, I'll go." Bukarovsky began talking again into the phone. "Here you — take a bobik," he said to Porter. "A bobik?" Porter said. A bobik was a breed of dog. "I'm tired of your problems. I've got my o w n problems," the man told the phone. He put his hand into a box of keys and threw one to Porter. "Give him the book," he said to the w o m a n across the desk. " A n d go and see Yura." Porter signed for the key and went back d o w n to the entrance. "Where do I get a bobik?" he asked a man at the door. "Back of the building, right behind here." He went round the building and found the cars, in an open shed. There was nobody there. He walked around, checking the numbers on

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the trucks against the one on his key, and found his bobik. It was a closed vehicle, very square and ugly like a little tank. He got in the car and started it. T h e engine was powerful and made a noise like a dog — evidently explaining the name. Porter drove to the front of the building, and found Yura's office. He was a little pig-like man with grey hair. "I'm Khodyan — Kolya. Bukarovsky sent me." T h e man looked him up and down. "Have you ever driven a 50?" "Sure." At the camp they'd only had a 40, but he'd been assured it was the same. Sixteen gears. " W h e r e have you driven?" " C h u k o t k a , Magadan — around there." " T h e r e are roads there," said the man. " N o t here. Let's see what you can do." T a k i n g a key from a tall cupboard, he put on his fur cap and leather jacket. "Follow me." An experienced ex-driver, evidently, and an injured one, Porter saw. One leg was shorter than the other. T h e y came to an enormous truck and Yura went rapidly up an iron ladder. " Y o u go on the other side," he said. Porter climbed the six or seven feet and swung himself behind the wheel. Yura closed his door and handed over the keys.

W h e n they had stopped, Yura switched off for him and took the key. "You sure you drove a 50 before?" he said. "I think you drove a 40, with sixteen gears." Porter's smile disappeared. "I drive anything. I drive sixteen gears or twenty. A n y truck you've got I'll drive!" Yura's little pig face suddenly opened up in a great smile of its own. "Easy, Kolya. You're a C h u k c h e e ? "

The New Chukchee

"Never mind what I am! You don't want me, I go home." "Easy, Kolya," Yura said, still smiling. "You're O K . Y o u just need a little more time on the 50. C o m e on, smile now." Porter shyly gave him a smile. "That's better. You're with friends here, we want you. Go back and sign now."

As the last man to sign on, Kolya Khodyan got the shorter, less wellpaid jobs, but the new Chukchee driver accepted this cheerfully. He smiled all the time and took on any job without argument, and he quickly became popular with the other drivers. He had noticed that many of the dock workers were Siberian natives, who would be leaving the town soon. Heavy snow made their job urgent, so he volunteered to help move the crates into the storage sheds. A team of Yukagirs came to help him. Porter climbed out of his truck and called to one of them. "Warm work, brother!" The man glanced around in surprise. He had called in Yukagir. "You speak our language?" said the man, looking him over. "A few words. Y o u live here in the t o w n ? " "No. We live over at Novokolymsk. You don't k n o w the area?" "Not so well. Some friends work up at the station, in the hills. You know that place?" "With the scientists?" "That one." "Only the Evenks w o r k up there, now. Your friends are E v e n k s ? " "Evenks." "Yes, it's good for them. T h e y fly them in, they don't want whites and the money's not bad. You speak our language well," the Yukagir told him. The line of traffic moved then, so he got back into his truck. But he had heard enough.

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In the summer, in the camp, he had watched week by week as the research station had been repaired. He had watched it from satellite photographs, a world away. N o w he was there — a few kilometres away. A n d now he was on his own.

A few days later they sent him out with spares and some instruments to a gang of road workers on the Bilibino highway, fifty kilometres out of Tchersky. T h e road stretched seven hundred kilometres and it had been flooded all summer. N o w the mud was hardening, and treatment could begin. On the way back the bobik broke down. Porter managed to get it going again, but brought it back to the shed to get it repaired. All the mechanics were at lunch and only Vassili, the old Yakut store-man, was there, eating out of a pot. "You'll have to do it yourself. There's no spare bobik, and they have no time to repair it. I'll give you the part you need now." A n d the old man left his meal, and took the Chukchee into the storeroom. Porter was amazed to see that there were spare bobik parts everywhere. Gearboxes, doors — engines, even. T h e old man was pleased that Porter spoke to him in Yakut. " D i d you eat yet?" he asked. " N o t yet. W h a t have you got there?" "Good food. My wife's. N o t that rubbish you get here. Join me." Porter joined him, and praised the food. T h e n the Yakut helped him fit the part he needed. He was gone before the mechanics returned. He drove d o w n into Tchersky, listening to the engine. N o t a thing wrong with it. A very simple machine. He thought about this. A number of plans had been prepared for getting him out. T h e y were good plans, but obviously someone else must know of them. It might be a good idea to make other arrangements.

The Party

That weekend the largest party ever seen in Tchersky was held in a huge shed that had been specially converted for the occasion. Pavel Grigorovich Bukarovsky, the road manager of the Tchersky Transport Company, had once been a prisoner in the Tchersky Labour Camp, one of the worst in the Soviet Union. Yet when it was closed in the 1950s Bukarovsky, like many of the former prisoners, had chosen to remain in the area. After the great gold and diamond finds of the 1960s the Kolymsky region suddenly became a much more attractive place to live. On his sixtieth birthday, forty years after arriving in the Arctic, Bukarovsky planned to celebrate these changes. T h e most senior people in the region were invited, along with everyone w h o worked for the Transport Company. Several hundred people were already there when Porter arrived, most of them dressed in their best clothes. T h e r e were thirty tables for ten grouped around a space left open for dancing, each covered with silver and glass and flowers. Music was playing and people had to shout to be heard as they pushed through the crowd to greet each other. Porter was directed to a table close to Bukarovsky's. A great noise rose as the guests settled and saw what they were going to receive. Before each guest were two bottles of expensive wine, one red and one white, and a small army of waitresses served course after course of the most extraordinary food that Porter had ever seen. Towards the end of the meal a huge cake was wheeled in as a present from Tchersky. Bukarovsky, highly emotional, gave a speech of thanks to the people of the town. T h e n Yura got up and thanked all the staff in the health services, and in particular Tchersky's wonderful hospital! A n d

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glancing round to where all the smiling faces had turned, Porter saw Medical Officer Komarova staring at him. His heart jumped. She was at a table beyond Bukarovsky, and now, through the cigarette smoke, he saw all the senior staff of the hospital. T h e director of the hospital was there, and the nurses he had shouted at in Korean. All were looking and smiling in a friendly way — except Medical Officer Komarova. She was simply staring. But was she staring at him? Perhaps she was staring at Yura. He looked quickly away, and was grateful when Yura then sat down and the band began playing. People began to move out onto the dance floor. But the staff from the hospital were coming over to thank Yura. Soon Komarova was bending over Porter to shake hands with the old man. He dropped his spoon at once, and got his head under the table to pick it up. T h e n he too moved out towards the dance floor. Komarova had certainly seen him: she had come over to see him better. But the hospital director did not seem to have recognised him, and nor had any of the others. All of them had examined him in the hospital: an angry Korean seaman, with a pigtail. N o w he was a smiling Chukchee with a shaven head, a guest of Pavel Grigorovich's. W h a t connection could there be between the foreign seaman and this driver from Green Cape? But she had seen a connection. Or had she? He tried to remember every contact he had had with her. She had seen him on the ship. She had brought him to the hospital, and she had examined him every day. She had arranged for him to get to Murmansk. Perhaps she had now heard from Murmansk. Or perhaps it was because he was a Chukchee. Perhaps she had not seen any Chukchees in her district before. Yura, Bukarovsky, even the old Yakut Vassili had been surprised to see him. Yes, it was that. It had to be that.

The Party

By November, with the weather hard and the roads good, Kolya Khodyan was very popular at the Tchersky Transport Company. He cheerfully accepted local drives and did not ask for the well-paid, longdistance jobs. Family men needed the money more, he said; he was just helping a friend. He'd seen a truck with Tcherny Vodi written on the side and made enquiries. "No, Kolya. That's not to go yet." "What is it?" "Engines. For a place up in the hills. T h e y had some kind of explosion a few months ago. Y o u don't just deliver there. T h e y have to call through and say when. T h e y have the security people there — from Moscow." "What do they want with security people there?" he asked in surprise. "God knows. We don't ship them much. T h e y fly in what they need. This gear has been here for weeks. Maybe they don't need it yet." "I have friends in that place, I think — Evenks. Can I take this stuff?" "Of course, Kolya. W h e n we get the call you can take the job." And they got the call, and he took the job. He drove the truck out of town and followed the map and went d o w n by the creek. T h e r e was nobody to be seen anywhere but he waited for fifteen kilometres before stopping the truck. T h e n he got out and climbed in the back. W i t h a small pot of paint he changed the markings on one of the crates. It was now very cold and the paint dried immediately. Twenty kilometres farther along the creek he saw the red flag which marked the turning he had to take. T h e river bank was steep but a ramp had been lowered. He saw two men on the top, both carrying automatic weapons, and they waved to him as he moved slowly up. T h e y had come out of a wooden guard hut, and a military jeep stood next to it. "Did you find it O K ? " "No problem."

Kolymsky Heights

T h e y had obviously not expected a native, and were staring at him, in quite a friendly way, though. "You unload all this on your o w n ? " "Sure. Only problem is with the list they gave me." "Bring it inside." It was comfortable inside, with two oil fires, and the men told him how this special post worked. T h e y had come down here an hour ago to open it up, flag the turning and lay the ramp. T h e y would wait until a tracked vehicle came d o w n to pick up the load, and then take up the ramp and return. T h e r e was usually no one at this post. "What's the problem with the list?" " O n e of the boxes seems to be wrong." He took out the crates and showed them the one with the wrong markings. T h e two men looked confused and wondered what to do. "Leave them here, and they'll sort it out." "That's fine with me. But you'll have to sign for it, or I can't leave it." T h e two men looked at each other. "Well, what can we d o ? " "I don't know. Either I take it up there and they check it or someone comes d o w n here and checks it here." T h e y went back in the hut and made a call. T h e call established that someone would come d o w n and check it. T w o Evenks and an officer came down on the tracked vehicle. The officer opened the suspect crate and looked into it. "It's all right. Close it." Kolya helped the Evenks transfer the load. T h e y chatted happily while they did this — the Evenks, like the other Siberian natives, impressed that he spoke their language. " H o w is it up there, brothers?" "Fine. Good conditions, good pay." "I'm glad you came down. I thought I was going to have to run up there with this."

The Party

T h e Evenks laughed. " T h e y ' d never let you." " W h y ? W h a t goes on up there?" "You need a special permit. We don't have any contact with anybody. It's just scientists there — w h o knows what they d o ? " But he learned more. T h e Evenk herds were far away, at the other side of a mountain. F r o m there they took you in by helicopter. Y o u only did one month at a time at the hill station. T h e y didn't let you stay any longer. A security man came down and gave the permits to Innokenty, the headman. T h e n they finished the loading and left. Porter's papers were signed and he left too, and drove back along the creek, thinking. T h e Evenks were the only way in and he would have to meet this headman, Innokenty. He would have to get out to the herds. But there were no deliveries to the herds. Somehow there would have to be a way of getting there.

T h e load was for a big truck to Provodnoye. It was two hundred and sixty kilometres each way, and nobody wanted it: the money was not good enough. Kolya took it and found that the route along the river was very interesting: you could lose yourself here if you needed to. He travelled at sixty kilometres an hour, slowing to thirty and twenty on the bends. He was pulling out of one when he saw some white birds flying out of a piece of bush. A beautiful sight! He stopped the truck and got out and walked back towards the river. He saw that the birds had not come from the bush but from a hole in the river bank behind the bush. All dark inside, but high, broad, deep. He felt gently with his hands. Ice on the walls. He could see nothing, but it was deep. He had left his torch in the truck, and did not go any farther. He had started a little late. Provodnoye was still a couple of hours away. He slept the night at Provodnoye and returned the next day. T h i s time he brought his torch and shone it around. It was even deeper than he

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thought, and formed from rock, not ice. It could hold what it had to hold.

He had a chat with Vassili soon after. In between he had made a trip to A m b a r c h i k on the coast and from there he had brought back an enormous fish as a present for Vassili's wife. Very often now he had been sharing the old Yakut's food. Vassili was very pleased. " T h i s is a fish," he said. "It's a metre long." "Yes, it's a good fish." "She'll love it. Have you eaten lunch yet?" " N o t yet." T h e y shared the Yakut's food. "Vassili," he said, "I need a bobik." " T a k e one." " T o keep. For myself." " W h a t for?" "I want one." T h e Y a k u t nodded, cutting a piece of fish between his teeth. " D o you k n o w any E v e n k s ? " Kolya asked him. " T h e r e are no Evenks here now." " W h e r e would you find t h e m ? " " Y o u said you k n e w some at the station in the hills." " T h e y ' r e not there. I took a load to that station." " T h e n they're either with the herds or at Novokolymsk." Kolya thought about this. Evidently not only Yukagirs lived at N o v o k o l y m s k . Evenks too. Vassili cut off more fish in his mouth. " W h e r e is she?" he said. "Who?" T h e Yakut's face opened with a smile. "I think you have an Evenk girl and don't know where she is — at Novokolymsk or with the herds. Right?" Kolya did not answer. Vassili cleaned his mouth. " W h e r e would you keep the bobik?"

The Party

"I know a place." "You can't just steal one — they're all registered. You k n o w that, don't y o u ? " " O f course I know it." "So how would you get one?" "I could build one, if I had a friend with the parts." T h e Yakut smiled. "Well, I'll see. Don't bother me with it now." Kolya began taking parts for the bobik the same week, k n o w i n g that it would take time before anything could be put together. He would have to work fast, on as many nights as he could.

Soon after his visit to Vassili, Kolya was called to Yura's office. "Kolya, I'm giving you a chance to make some real money," he said, putting the phone down. "You're going to Bilibino tomorrow." To Bilibino and back was one thousand four hundred kilometres — an excellent three-day job for the drivers. For Porter three days away was very bad news. But to Bilibino he went.

They left at eight in a snowstorm and it was still dark until almost eleven o'clock. Kolya was sharing the drive with an elderly fellow called Vanya, and they were travelling in an enormous truck. "You'll take over after the first stop," he said, and they came to the first road station soon after eleven. T w o trucks in front had pulled in, together with another couple going the other way. A radio was on and it was very w a r m and smoky in the wooden hut. Cooking smells came from the kitchen, and cigarette smoke hung over the tables where the drivers sat. It was some minutes before he saw that one of them was a woman. She was also smoking, and talking to the other drivers. Suddenly he heard his name mentioned. "Sure, that's him, our C h u k c h e e . . . Kolya, come over here, She wants

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to meet you. Medical Officer Komarova." Her eyes studied him calmly as they shook hands. She wore an open winter coat and a cap like the others, and was sitting with a cigarette over a cup of coffee. "You're new here, I understand." "Yes, not long. A few weeks." T h e y had made room for him on the bench opposite, and he smiled at her. " F r o m C h u k o t k a ? " Medical Officer Komarova said. "Chukotka. I'm helping a friend." " T h e y haven't sent your papers in yet. Y o u need to come in to our office. A r e you coming back n o w ? " " N o , I'm going to Bilibino." Medical Officer Komarova smiled thinly. Under the cap her face looked paler, longer. She held her cigarette in her mouth and took out a notebook and a pen. "Today's Tuesday? . . . C o m e on Friday afternoon, four p.m. We'll register you then." She went soon afterwards and he finished his breakfast, still in doubt. H a d she recognised him? Surely not. It was because he was Chukchee: he looked different from the others. A n d totally different from the Korean seaman. N o . He was a new face in town, a new driver. T h e y just needed to see his papers. He finished his coffee and in twenty minutes was driving again. The snow had stopped. "She seems nice, that medical officer," he said, as they climbed the ice road running between the mountain peaks. Vanya shook his head. "You think so? Be careful. T h e smallest thing w r o n g with you and she stops you taking the big drives." "Does she check all the drivers?" "Yeah, they keep all our medical histories at Tchersky. She's a strict manager, Komarova." T h e y drove on through the night and the next day, stopping every

The Party

hundred kilometres at the road stations. At one o'clock they drove into Bilibino, the centre for the most northerly gold-fields of Siberia. T h e big trucks and the ice road were the only way of getting heavy equipment there. They left the trucks for unloading and reloading and eight hours later, after a meal and a sleep, they left again on the return journey. At eight on Friday morning, seventy-two hours after leaving it, they pulled back into Green Cape.

That afternoon he went to the administrative building and found the medical centre. "Khodyan," he said to the secretary. "I was told to be here at four. I'm a new driver with the transport company." He handed in the card he had been given. "You were getting my papers." She had a look at the card. " O h yes. Khodyan," she said. " C o m e through." He followed her t h r o u g h the room and into another room. "Khodyan," she said, and left him. Medical Officer Komarova was in the room, writing at a desk. She was in her white hospital coat. She glanced up, briefly. "Please sit down." He did so, trying not to show his alarm. "I thought you wouldn't be here," he said. "I thought so, too." She continued writing for a few moments and then put the top back on her old-fashioned pen. She pulled a file towards her and began to read. "You were in Novosibirsk. W h a t were you doing there?" "My father was a teacher, without a degree. It was difficult for our people at Anadyr then. We went to Novosibirsk and he got one." "I see. A n d then the family went b a c k ? " " N o . T h e y liked Novosibirsk." "And you?"

Kolymsky Heights

"I don't like it. For me it is better up here." " W h e r e did you learn your — Russian?" "Everywhere. Is not very good, I know." "Better than my Chukchee," she said. She said it in Chukchee and he gave her a big smile. T h i s tough and clever w o m a n knew something. What? T h e faint smile was there again. If she k n e w Chukchee, she had some contact with Chukchees. D i d she k n o w he wasn't one? He couldn't understand her; she seemed different every time he saw her. Yet the same face — pale, thin-nosed. T h e fair hair, tied back; not remarkable. N o t h i n g about her was remarkable. Was she forty, thirty? Impossible to say. T h e grey eyes were examining him. " A r e you pure C h u k c h e e ? " "I don't k n o w h o w pure I am. I'm Chukchee." He allowed his anger to show as he said this, and she looked down at his file. " A l l right. Let's have a look at you. Put your clothes on the bench." She listened to his chest. She listened to his back. She listened to his chest again. "I think there's a slight heart problem," she said. " T h e r e was a note about it in your file. It's only slight but we need to be careful. Y o u can get dressed now." He got dressed, thinking this over. W h a t was going on here? He had absolutely no heart problem. He had been checked out thoroughly at the camp. "I can't recommend that you drive long distances," she said. "It's dangerous, for you and for others." He saw the advantage at once: he did not want long journeys. But what game was she playing? "But I'm a driver," he said. "It's my work." " Y o u can do other w o r k , short journeys. But you are very tired and I want you to rest for a week. H a n d this in to the office there." He stared at the form she gave him.

A Dangerous Journey

"A few clays' rest isn't a punishment," she said, the faint smile appearing again. "You have friends here, I believe." "Yes, friends." "But not Chukchee — is that it?" "No. No Chukchees here," he said with more confidence. "Oh, but there are. At Panarovka, this side of the river. I go there tomorrow. If you want I'll take you. T h e n you can talk Chukchee." His smile was brighter than hers. "I would like that. T h a n k you." He went out feeling seriously alarmed. She knew something. She had examined him before . . . She knew .. . But had she told anyone else? He was confident that he had not been watched. Perhaps she hadn't been sure until now; perhaps she was still not sure. But tomorrow she would be sure. T h e Y u k a g i r had not thought him a Yukagir, or the Evenks an Evenk. Would he be able to fool the Chukchees? What then? Should he not go? N o , he would keep to the plan. He would go with Komarova the next day; but if anything happened, she would not see another.

A Dangerous Journey

At eleven thirty the sun had only just risen but already they needed their snow glasses. She was in her cap and coat, and she handled the bobik efficiently, driving quite fast along the river and saying almost nothing. "It's up a creek, this village?" he said. "A small river they call Little Spirit."

Kolymsky Heights

"A strange name. W h y Little Spirit?" "A prison camp used to be there: a camp where many people died. Their spirits remain." "You believe that?" he said. She smiled. " T h e Chukchees believe it." A n d now she became suddenly talkative. " Y o u k n o w a lot of these old beliefs, I expect?" "Some," he said. "My father was a teacher — he didn't believe." "There are old-fashioned people here. T h e y believe. A n d they know many things. Maybe they even k n o w you." "I don't think so," he said. "I never was here." "But they go there — to C h u k o t k a . T h e y fly out and they k n o w all the families there. They'll certainly k n o w of your family — parents, aunts, cousins. It will be interesting." "Yes, interesting," he said. He observed the river banks as she drove around the bends. They were high enough and narrow enough. Yes, it could easily be done here. After twenty minutes Panarovka came into view. T h e river widened suddenly and the bank fell to form a beach. T h e village was on a snowcovered slope, perhaps three hundred metres away. A track had been made, climbing from the river, and she turned up it. T h e r e were three rows of houses and a taller building he could not recognise. "A church," she said. " T h e place is old. T h e y still use it." Both the church and the houses were made of wood. Smoke came from the houses but no one was around. She parked outside the last house on the corner. "Your surgery?" he said. "Yes. Bring the other crate." She had got one out of the back and was walking up the snow path. So she used one of the Chukchee houses as her surgery. She could have explained, but she evidently wanted to test him immediately with

A Dangerous Journey

some Chukchees. A Chukchee w o m a n , elderly and shapeless, opened the door as they reached it. "I heard the car," she said in Russian. "Yes. I'm sorry I'm late. There's fruit here, Viktoria." To his surprise she kissed the Chukchee. "Bring it in," she said to Kolya. They took the crate of fruit through a little hall into a large room. It was very warm, with a big wood burner against the far wall. T h e walls were of wood and the room dark, the windows small. Another w o m a n was sitting in a big chair, and Komarova bent and kissed her too. "Tanya!" the woman said. "Mother, I've brought a visitor — Nikolai Dmitrievich Khodyan. He's from C h u k o t k a . " "Nikolai Dmitrievich?" the old lady said, holding out her hand. "Kolya," he said, shaking the hand. "Bend down, she can't see you," Komarova ordered. He bent and the old lady felt his face, and his head. " A n old person?" " N o t as young as I want to be, but not very old." "His hair fell out. He's my age," Komarova said. Was he? Khodyan was thirty-six. " K h o d y a n ? " the Chukchee w o m a n said, returning to the room. "One of the Khodyans from A n a d y r ? " "Yes, I am. You are Viktoria

"

"Eremvevina." T h e Chukchee woman shook his hand. " A n d are you Nikolai Dmitrievich? T h e son of the schoolteacher?" "That's me." T h e y were talking now in Chukchee. " T h e n I was present at your birth!" She gave him a kiss on the lips. "But your family moved to Novosibirsk. A n d your elder sister, the one who was so ill — what was her n a m e ? " "She died," Kolya said quickly. "It hurts me to talk of it." " O h , I'm sorry!" "Is my consulting room ready?" Komarova asked the Chukchee.

Kolymsky Heights

" O f course. There are ten people sitting there waiting for you." "Well, tell them I'm here. A n d prepare a room for Nikolai Dmitrievich, he will be staying the night." T h e medical officer was looking at him strangely, and he returned the look. She had understood every word of the Chukchee. Was that a problem? In a way his story had been confirmed. A n d he would not have to deal with this cold-hearted w o m a n for much longer. After she had seen her patients Komarova offered to show Kolya around the village. "I'm sure you'd like to see the church," she said H e r mother stared at her. " A r e you crazy? It's dark outside." "There's a moon." "But you'll freeze! Put on extra coats." T h e y put on extra coats, but the cold still seemed to burn him as they walked up the path to the church. On both sides there were graves, and he could see tiny ice-covered wooden crosses in the moonlight. T h e church was not locked and he followed her inside. She went to the front and then turned to face him. T h e r e was only a tiny red light behind her, and he could not see her face clearly. "Well now, Nikolai Dmitrievich, I have an apology to m a k e to you." " A n apology? For w h a t ? " "I was not sure w h o you were — even if you were really a Chukchee." He stared at her. " W h a t else could I b e ? " "You could have been something else. Y o u k n o w we have few strangers here, a security area. But a few weeks ago we did have one, in Green Cape. I took him off his ship to Tchersky Hospital. I thought you looked like him." He shook his head. "I don't understand," he said. "You have a seaman in hospital, and think I

"

" H e isn't. He recovered and went away, to Murmansk, to rejoin his

A Dangerous Journey

ship. But there were certain things about you, your accent, for instance. It didn't sound to me Chukchee . . . That's why I brought you here. These people would know, of course." He smiled. "Well, I hope Viktoria has convinced you. I don't remember my birth, but she was there!" "Yes, I know. But people say you have some other accent — maybe a little like Evenk. It's what I thought myself, and it made me wonder." "Well, my friends are Evenk, it's true. A n d my o w n language — I mainly lost it in Novosibirsk. A n d I don't even speak Russian well!" "Don't worry," she said, a little more warmly. "But I wanted to apologise, and to tell you not to be alarmed if the police question you." "The police?" "As the medical officer for the district I must report any stranger. But there's nothing to worry about

" She stopped, noticing his expression.

"Is there something you have not told m e ? " He was silent, staring at the floor. "Nikolai Dmitrievich," she said, "you can tell me. I k n o w that there are drivers here who don't want their affairs looked at too closely . . . I don't report such things. Is there something?" He was silent a few moments longer. "Can I trust y o u ? " he said softly. "If it's not criminal, of course." "It's not criminal," he said. "But I'm not Khodyan. All that I've said of my life is true, but I'm not Khodyan. In Novosibirsk I knew Khodyan. His father was a schoolteacher. We were friends and we became drivers together. But he went back north, to Magadan. T h e n this year — this summer — we met again, at Batumi on the Black Sea. He wanted to stay there and lose his identity. An affair of the heart — a girl he wished to marry. A n d he already had a wife and children. So we exchanged papers. It was crazy, I k n o w — although at the time it seemed a joke." She stared at him. " T h i s is totally crazy!"

Kolymsky Heights

He lowered his eyes. "There is something else, something very upsetting. Khodyan drowned at Batumi, a terrible accident. A n d he is buried there under my name. W h a t was I to do? I couldn't go back to Novosibirsk, and I couldn't stay in Batumi. So in the end Ponomarenko, who knew all this — the three of us had teamed up together — helped me. He said I could come up here for a while, and take his apartment and his job." She looked at him for a long time. " T h e y all like you at the Green Cape — and here too. But this is a crazy thing you did." "Yes, I'm a fool. I think I've always been a fool," he said sadly. "But not bad! Please don't ask for a police investigation!" She moved towards the door. "I must think about this," she said, opening the door. T h a t night he thought about what he had to do. He would need a spot to turn the car over in afterwards, a broken neck had to be explained. T h e r e were plenty of spots and there would be no problems. Yet he slept badly.

T h e y were ready to go by nine, still in the dark. "Let me drive," he said, at the car. "I am quite relaxed today." " N o , I don't like to be driven. A n d get in quickly or my mother will delay me with some nonsense." He got in and the bobik started immediately. She drove down to the river, and then carefully onto it. "So what happened to this K o r e a n ? " he asked. "You thought he looked like m e ? " " H e had more hair than you," she said, smiling. "With a pigtail and moustache. A very angry man." " W h y was he a n g r y ? " " H e couldn't speak Russian. He kept shouting in Korean, and bits of Japanese. We thought he wanted to go to Japan — he'd come from there.

A Dangerous Journey

But it was Murmansk he wanted, and his ship." "So he went there and sailed a w a y ? " "Yes. I suppose so. He went, anyway." "And you heard nothing m o r e ? " "No." She drove carefully around a bend. " N o t yet. We will, though." So something would come. Well, somebody else would deal with it. Two more kilometres on the ice, he saw on the clock. "Can I s m o k e ? " he said. "You k n o w I don't permit smoking while I drive." "Then stop for a minute. We'll both have one." "Don't be silly, Kolya. Y o u can wait." He took his cigarettes out and opened the packet. She glanced at him. "Put them away, Kolya! I told y o u ! " "Stop the car," he said. "Don't talk to me in that way!" she said angrily. "Stop the car." "What do you

"

He got a foot up and kicked both hers away. T h e car sw u n g and hit the bank and he fought her for the controls. It sw u n g round once and then again, in two complete circles before it stopped. Her mouth was open, her face white in the reflected light of the headlamps. "What are you

"

"I'm sorry," he said. " N o , don't! Don't!" He had an arm round her neck, could feel her breath. "It's me! Understand! Kolya — it's me you want! You've come here for me. For Rogachev — don't you understand? Rogachev!" Her head was in his elbow, and he relaxed it slightly, staring at her. "What are you saying?" "I know who you are! I landed you from the ship. I waited for you!

Kolymsky Heights

Fool! Let me g o ! " He let her go and they stared at each other. Her mouth was shaking, her eyes still wide open with fright. "Were you going to kill m e ? " Yes. T h e y still stared at each other. " W h e r e are the cigarettes?" she said. He found them under his feet, and lit two, one for him and one for her.

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

Her foot was swollen where he had kicked it. T h e y sat in the dark room and he watched as she bandaged the swelling. T h e y had said very little since reaching the house. T h e house was a wooden one, like her mother's, on the edge of Tchersky. It had a large shed alongside, which was where the bobik was parked. She finished bandaging her foot and poured them both a drink. " W h y did you wait so l o n g ? " he asked. " T o see h o w you managed here. If you were capable." "Did I manage?" "Yes. Well enough." " T h e n why take me to Panarovka?" " T o see what you would say if there was a police investigation. Also how you'd be with genuine Chukchees . .. Y o u were very lucky." "You also."

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

She nodded, looking into her glass. "You planned to kill me before we left here yesterday, didn't y o u ? " "Yes." "Your story in the church, about Khodyan, Ponomarenko — did you invent it?" "Yes." "Again you were lucky. So where is K h o d y a n ? " "I don't know," he said. "I don't know where his papers came from, either. But I k n o w a little about Ponomarenko." "Ponomarenko is in B a t u m i ? " "Maybe. He's somewhere. T h e y have evidence against him of drug dealing. He's under control." " W h y Ponomarenko?" "By chance. Many drivers go to the Black Sea for the summer. Ponomarenko was not lucky." "What did he have to do — provide his apartment, all the details of his life here?" "That, yes." "So what plans have you for getting to Tcherny V o d i ? " "Obviously the Evenks — a visit to the herds. T h e y have a headman there, Innokenty. He chooses people to go to Tcherny Vodi. A security man comes down and gives them passes." She stared at him. "Passes, Innokenty . . . Did you know all this before you came?" He smiled faintly. " N o . I discovered it here." "I go out to the herds, every six or eight weeks. In a helicopter. You'll come with me." "Is this Rogachev's idea?" " N o . Mine. It's true you'll need the cooperation of the Evenks. I think you've got a good chance of getting that." She finished her drink quickly. "He hasn't told me any detailed plans yet."

Kolymsky Heights

"Does he know I'm here n o w ? " "Yes. He knows." "When did you see h i m ? " Her thin smile showed for a moment. " T h e last time? I think — about thirty years ago."

Thirty years ago, she said, Rogachev had stayed in this house. He had been a fellow prisoner with her father before that in the camp at Panarovka. W h e n it had closed down he had gone back to Moscow, while her father had remained here. Panarovka couldn't be lived in at that time -— the Chukchees were w o r k i n g on turning the camp into houses — and her father had made this place his surgery. Her mother had come up from Leningrad, and here she herself had been born. Rogachev had travelled up on a visit, in connection with some scientific mission, and had stayed with his old friend Dr Komarov. "And soon he became my best friend! There I was, a little girl of six, without any friends, and this delightful man stayed here for three months." "Did he come here in connection with the research station?" She shook her head. " H e couldn't have k n o w n anything about it then. Nobody did. It was thought to be some sort of weather place. N o , he was doing some low temperature experiments. He was full of little games. I was Tanya-Panya, and he was Misha-Bisha — our secret names." "Misha-Bisha?" "Misha the bear. He was a big man. Just funny names. He gave people names." " T h e n what happened?" he said. " H e went away. A n d later so did we, to Panarovka. My father kept this house, but I spent most of my time there, apart from school and medical studies. A n d later I became the medical officer for this area, and Rogachev asked me to help him." " Y o u said you'd never seen him again."

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

"I haven't. A note, unsigned. Just greetings from Misha-Bisha to Tanya-Panya." " H e sent you it?" " T h r o u g h an Evenk. In an envelope." "Where?" "There. At Tcherny Vodi. T h e y have a surgery. I provide the medical supplies. It's in my district." "You go into the place?" "To deliver the supplies. A n d to treat patients — the Evenks and the security staff. T h e scientists have their own doctor. I've never seen him. I receive a list of what he wants and I supply it." "Wait a minute," Porter said, slowly w o r k i n g this out. "If an Evenk gave you the message — they see Rogachev?" " A n Evenk does. Rogachev's servant." " T h e servant gave you the message?" " N o , I've never seen him, either. But he's allowed to see the other Evenks, once a month, to discuss family affairs. He's totally trusted." " A n d he was told to get this message to you." "Yes. It seems Rogachev had heard there was a new medical officer — the daughter of Dr Komarov. T h a t first note was to check it was truly me. Later he told me what he wanted." He got up and walked around the room. Beside the old wood burner there was a religious picture on the wall. T h e burner was cold, the house now electrically heated and very warm. Books were everywhere, on shelves, tables. " W h a t did he w a n t ? " he said. " H e said he had discovered something of great value, which they were preventing him from publishing." "Did he say what it was?" "No." " O r what they're doing up there?"

Kolymsky Heights

" N o t that either. Except I k n o w now that it involves dangerous substances. T h e y had an accident a few months ago. It was some kind of explosion . .. Y o u k n o w about it, of course," she said. He made no comment on this. " H o w did he think you could help h i m ? " "Stepan Maximovich — that's the servant — had to get some cigarettes to me. Y o u k n o w all this, too." " A n d what did you have to do with t h e m ? " "A Japanese ship had been coming here for the past couple of years. Some of the Evenks w o r k at the docks during the summer, and they told Stepan Maximovich that one of the sailors had been asking for drugs. It was a joke — the Evenks had no access to drugs. But Stepan told Rogachev, and this gave Misha-Bisha an idea." " W h i c h was w h a t ? " "For me to board the ship, of course. A n d contact the man w h o was looking for drugs. That's how the messages got out."

By three o'clock it was night, and Porter went around the old house switching on lamps and drawing curtains. She watched him doing it, and then brought him some coffee. "You're not a C h u k c h e e . Or an Evenk. Or anything I know. You're of the north, of course?" Porter smiled but did not answer. She smiled back coldly. "A very careful man. Well, how much have you built of this bobik?" He had told her some details of the vehicle — having decided that he needed her shed — and n o w he told her some more while she told him about the research station. T h e n he listened carefully. "So where's your surgery? "In the guards' area. T h e Evenks come there." "Is that the only place you have contact with them?"

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

"Well, they have to unload the car and load it again. I go to the director's office. A n d they bring along a truck to take the supplies to the storage shed." " W h o organises this?" " T h e security people do. T h e y have to check everything that goes in or out. Were you thinking I might get you out?" "Well . .. W h a t if somebody's ill?" " T h e y ' d be flown out. A n d not to Tchersky. No contact is allowed with Tchersky." He drank his coffee, thinking. "So how do I get out?" he said. " T h e same way you got in?" " A n d stay there a month?" " T h a t would make things difficult at Green Cape, wouldn't it?" She nodded. " W e need to think about this. Go and bring the whisky." He went and got the whisky and then sat down beside her. As he poured their drinks, she said. "Your hands are long." She placed her hand on his. He stared at her. "What's this?" he said. With her other arm she pulled his head down and kissed him. She was smiling as she pulled back and looked into his face. " L o n g fellow," she said, "today you tried to kill me, and I could be dead. But I am not dead, and nor are you. A n d it's something to celebrate, after all — being alive."

Medical Officer Komarova and her Chukchee assistant boarded a small helicopter. T h e y took off at once, heading south-east. It was a dark and grey day, with snowstorms expected within hours. "Couldn't you have come earlier," said the pilot angrily, as they rose above the town. "I still have to get you back." "I was busy all morning," said Komarova. "I won't stay long."

Kolymsky Heights

"You say that, but you always stay hours with those natives . . . W h o is this one?" " A n employee of the transport company." T h e y had taken care to let the pilot see the C h u k c h e e driving the bobik and carrying the two heavy bags from it to the helicopter. Komarova herself was walking with a stick. T h e y didn't have to fly long, less than fifty minutes. But it was getting dark fast as they landed next to the group of tents that housed the Evenk herders. "Aren't you coming o u t ? " K o m a r o v a called to the pilot, at the door. " N o . A n d hurry up. I don't spend nights with herds of Evenks." "I'll be as quick as I can." A group of E v e n k w o m e n had run out to greet the helicopter, and K o m a r o v a and Porter were shown into a large tent. " W e can't stay long," Komarova said. " W h a t complaints are there here? H o w ' s everybody?" T h e complaints were the normal ones: bad cuts, minor infections, sore eyes. But one of the w o m e n was pregnant, and Komarova took time examining her behind a screen. She examined others there too, and he kept a careful check on the time, calling it out to her. It was getting late, and the plan needed the pilot to be able to take off. "All right, I'm coming," she called back, and presently was hurrying out. "But Evodokia, you're coming with me. I want you checked in hospital. A n d Igor too: that back problem needs seeing to. A n d there's extra medicine needed here — I'll send supplies tomorrow." A n d out they went, struggling against the wind to the helicopter: the pregnant w o m a n , the man with the bad back, Medical Officer Komarova, and her assistant from the transport company. "What's this?" the pilot shouted, as they climbed aboard. " H o w many of y o u ? " "Just two patients and us." " W i t h me that makes five. T h i s machine carries four!"

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

"You've carried five before." "In high winds, with a snowstorm coming? Impossible. One of them stays." "These patients have to be in hospital!" " T h e n let him stay!" Which he did, after some angry words.

He had spotted Innokenty immediately. T h e headman had sat smoking on the carpet while the medical examinations were carried out. "I never heard anyone speak the Evenk language so well," the old man said, "not any stranger. H o w is this so?" Porter

told

the

story

of his

childhood

in

Chukotka,

of his

schoolteacher father, of Novosibirsk and the Evenk friends he had met. He then told a very sad story about a young white woman he knew in Novosibirsk: the daughter of a scientist w h o worked at the research station here. This poor girl was dying from an incurable disease and she wanted to pass one last message to her father. W h e n she heard that Kolya was driving north, she had given him a letter to take to him. Was there any way he could get inside Tcherny Vodi to deliver it? T h e Evenks listened with tears in their eyes. Later that night the headman approached him. " W e may be able to help you," said Innokenty. In the morning the weather was clear and the helicopter returned with the medicine. Kolya went back with it. T h e Evenks waved at him as he rose in the sky. "We'll meet again," they had told him. Oh yes! Yes, they would!

After his week's rest Kolya Khodyan signed on for w o r k again at the Tchersky Transport Company. D u r i n g the day he drove, local jobs only. At night he drove out to the cave and continued building his bobik. He slept all day Saturday and Sunday and worked through both nights. By the time he drove back on Monday morning he had finished most of the heavy work.

Kolymsky Heights

" L o o k , you can't continue like this," Komarova told him. It was five in the morning, and she had heard him come in. "You can't finish it before you go up, anyway. In two or three days you'll be going up. Even today I could be given a date. Y o u need to rest." T h e call came the next day, as he was finishing work. "Kolya, the medical centre needs a driver tomorrow morning. It's a three-day job. Komarova has hurt her foot, and can't drive out of town. She has a few trips, maybe including Novokolymsk. It's yours if you want it." " O K , I don't mind," he said.

T h e y left the river and entered the creek. He drove for a few kilometres until the red flag for the turn-off ramp came into view. "I'm not sure I can do this," she said. Her face was pale and her voice dry. He wasn't sure himself. He didn't answer, but turned towards the guard post. On the top two men were waiting again. N o t the same two, though they looked the same. A military jeep stood by the hut. One of the men, a sergeant, bent d o w n towards the window. "A hard morning, Doctor. No trouble getting here?" " N o . Do you want me to get o u t ? " " N o , stay where you are. You've got a bad leg, I hear." T h e sergeant looked at Kolya's papers. "Follow me in first gear," he said. "Open the back now, I'll check it." T h e back door was opened and the sergeant checked off the goods. " O K , close her," he said, and walked off to the military jeep. " H o w long are you staying there, D o c t o r ? " T h e remaining soldier had just opened the gates leading to the upward track. A strong wind was coming from the mountain. " N o time. There's been — an emergency call. I'll be down almost at once."

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

" T h a n k G o d for that!" "Stay in the hut — this wind isn't good for you." " O K , let's g o ! " T h e sergeant had started the engine of the jeep and was waving them to start. They exchanged a quick glance, but he said nothing. T h e path up was very steep, and they drove very slowly in first gear. In just over a kilometre the top of the tower suddenly came into view, pink light reflecting off it. He recognised it at once from the photographs. And after the tower, the whole camp. T h e r e were two or three hundred metres of low buildings, spread out, enclosed by tall metal fencing. Just as they reached the gates, he identified the storage sheds too. T h e jeep paused at the gates, which opened, admitting them to another guard post. Here they were stopped again, and papers were once more checked: both sets of gates, those behind them and those in front, kept shut. T h e n they were waved on, the jeep leading the way. It stopped at a small square building, until a couple of uniformed men emerged. T h e jeep then left, the sergeant waving them to remain. "This is it," she said. "Open the door for me." "Remember your words. A n d that you're in a hurry." He ran round to the door, and she emerged, pushing the ground with her stick. "What's this, Medical Officer?" T h e first uniformed figure was a major, very smart in his fur hat. " T h e y say you've hurt yourself." "It's nothing," she said. "I can't stay, I'm afraid — an urgent case on my radio. Please unload these stores at once. Open the back," she ordered the Chukchee. He ran round to do so and the officer looked in. A truck came towards them. "Could you get the medical papers for me, Major? I'll look at them on the way down. A n d I'll join you very shortly. C o m e on, now, hurry u p ! " she called to the approaching truck.

Kolymsky Heights

An Evenk was driving the truck, and another one sat beside him. Porter recognised them both — they had been with the herds. T h e major went inside the building, and another soldier watched over the Evenks unloading. " N o w , men, w o r k fast!" he told them. " T h e medical officer has very little time." " Y o u won't be seeing us today, D o c t o r ? " one of the Evenks asked. " N o t today. I'll have to come back. Guard, could you see that they pile those crates up properly? They're going to fall!" T h e guard hurried to the wall to reorganise the crates, and the Evenk at the bobik unloaded the remaining ones. He had to jump inside the bobik to get them, and the C h u k c h e e jumped in to help him. Once inside Porter quickly removed his hat and coat, and the Evenk did the same. In no time they had swapped over. " Q u i c k , take my papers!" Porter said. "You'll need them to get out." "Papers? Where can I put t h e m ? " T h e man had still not found a place to put the papers when the guard noticed the Chukchee in the bobik. "Hey! Y o u there — come out!" T h e two men looked round at him. " Y o u , in the fur hat, come out at once! You're not allowed!" T h e man now in the fur hat came slowly out, shaking his head at the medical officer. T h e guard walked over. " N o w , Officer," K o m a r o v a said, swallowing. She had observed the shake. "Those crates are very heavy. One man can't lift them on his own." "Well, he is not allowed to touch them. Y o u k n o w that, Doctor. No outsider handles anything here." "Yes, you're right," she said. "I'm sorry." She could see the papers changing hands behind the guard, and glanced at her watch. "But a sick w o m a n is waiting down there. Call the jeep for me while I go and see the major. I'll be out in two minutes."

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

A n d in two minutes she was. T h e sergeant was there in the jeep. T h e Chukchee was there in the bobik. T h e y moved off again, through two sets of opened gates and down the icy path to the guard post. Soon the medical officer was back in the creek again, with her driver. It was the first time the man had seen it.

Major Militsky was camp commander of Tcherny Vodi. It was a job he greatly disliked, because the security arrangements created ridiculous difficulties. The present problem concerned the naming of a baby. T h e baby, about to be born before its time, would be the grandchild of Stepan Maximovich, the director's servant. T h e custom a m o n g Evenks required the grandfather to choose a name for the baby. Stepan Maximovich was allowed to visit his fellow Evenks in the camp once every month. Because of the baby the Evenks were now demanding a further visit; in fact two. This was because he might wish to consult his wife. All this had to be completed by the time Medical Officer Komarova returned: the day after tomorrow. T h e Evenks were insistent that the name had to be known. Evenk belief was that a dead baby, even more than a live one, had to have a name in order that G o d T h e major, w h o had his o w n views on G o d , had sent a fax to the director with the Evenk request. N o w his machine was printing out the director's reply. He read it, amazed.

Best wishes to Evenks and best hopes for the safe arrival of the baby. Visit of Stepan Maximovich approved.

"By G o d ! " Stepan said. "I've started believing it myself. W h e n is that girl of mine having her baby?"

Kolymsky Heights

T h e Evenks all laughed. "Kolya . . . I'm glad to k n o w you, K o l y a ! " T h e old Evenk shook hands most warmly. " T h e y told me about you, and this poor girl. A n d I told the chief the whole story. He knows the father — has him w o r k i n g down there. T h e chief has spoken to him, and he expects the letter. You've got it with y o u ? " "It's here," Kolya said, taking it from his pocket. He put it to his lips before handing it over. T h e old Evenk was greatly moved by this gesture. "Kolya, I see you are a good fellow. I'll bring you the reply and you'll take it to the girl."

He returned later that afternoon. A n d this time he was not cheerful, but serious. He had brought an envelope with him, hidden in his boots, and when the guards left he produced it. It was not from the father, he said. It was for only Kolya to read. T h e C h u k c h e e separated himself and opened the envelope. A single short note was inside, and he read it twice. T h e n he looked at Stepan with his mouth open. "You k n o w what's here?" he said. " T h e father wants to see you himself." "But how is it possible for

"

"I don't know. It tells you how. T h e chief wrote it. Y o u are to tell me yes or no, and burn it. T h i s is all he told me." T h e C h u k c h e e whispered to himself. " W h a t should I d o ? " He saw that all the Evenks were staring at him. "Kolya, is it a dangerous thing?" one of them asked. "I don't k n o w . . . Maybe." " T h e n listen, you've done enough." Kolya looked at the letter again. " ' H e cries day and night,' " he read out. There was nothing about

Tanya-Panya and Misha-Bisha

crying in the note. "I don't k n o w . . . I've come so far," he said. "Tell him yes." He took out his lighter and burnt the note, and then he burnt the envelope too.

At ten fifty-five Kolya went to a washroom on the main corridor of Level T w o . At night guards checked it twice an hour, and he had already heard them pass. He looked up and d o w n the corridor; it was brightly lit but totally empty. He waited a few seconds, stepped out into the corridor, and turned right through big double doors. This is what the note had told him to do. It was all it had told him. He was inside a warm, dark room. Suddenly the end wall opened. He hurried to it and moved inside. As soon as he was in, in darkness, the wall closed again and a torchlight came on. Stepan was standing there, looking frightened. He gestured at him to follow, w a v i n g the torch. Stepan unlocked a door, and then two more, and finally they came into an enormous room. It was at least twenty metres long, at least six high, and full of books and works of art. There were paintings on the walls — wonderful paintings, of all periods — and flowers and trees in great pots. Stepan saw him staring. "This is his library, he sleeps here at night sometimes . . . N o w Kolya! You stay here. I have to go and tell him. He will get the father for you. I can't do it myself." He went through a door, leaving it very slightly open. A n d soon there was the sound of tapping on another door and Stepan's voice speaking softly in Russian. A n d then silence. Another door closed somewhere, and he heard it being locked. A n d then a wheelchair drove in.

Kolymsky Heights

" W e l l ! " Rogachev said. His hand was outstretched, and there was a great smile on his face. "I have waited for you, my friend. I have waited so eagerly."

The Ring and the Book

"I have two things to show you," Rogachev said. T h e y had spoken for a few minutes but Porter still stared at him, trying to remember the man. T h e red hair had gone. All the hair had gone. His skin looked thin and pale, with red patches on the face and hands. " W h a t happened to you — the explosion?" he said. " T h e satellite saw the ruins, did it?" Porter told him what the satellites had seen. " T h e names read from the list? A n d the bandages. N o t bad. Still, it's nothing — the earliest subjects. But we have to move. There's a lot to do." He was opening a door under the library. A small room led off it, full of fur coats. Rogachev carefully locked the door behind them. " H e l p me up," he said. " W e are going somewhere cold and must clothe ourselves." Porter helped the old man into his coat and hat, and did the same for himself. Rogachev then opened a door in the far wall. Icy air emerged. Beyond the door a line of lights had come on, revealing a long ramp. T h e wheelchair went softly d o w n the ramp and Porter held on to the back. T h e r e was ice everywhere: strange, glassy, multicoloured ice that fell from the walls in showers as they passed. " W e can't stay below more than ten minutes," Rogachev said.

The Ring and the Book

At the bottom the ramp led into a wide chamber with tube-like walls, the whole place brilliantly lit. A block of ice stood in the middle and Rogachev moved towards it. Except that it wasn't ice, Porter saw, but some kind of plastic case. "It opens quite easily. Just help me hold it," Rogachev said, and raised the lid. There was a girl in the case. She was on her back, her eyes closed, very pale, and she wore nothing except for a white sheet. Fair hair fell on either side of her breasts, and her lips were a little open as if breathing. Her wrists were crossed on the sheet, right over left. She was tall and very attractive. Porter looked from her to Rogachev. "What's this?" he said. "A young w o m a n , perhaps seventeen. We had to carry out some operations on her, as far as possible from the back. She was eight months pregnant." " W h o is she?" " W e call her Sibir, after the country. This is how I found her. She had died suddenly and was — quick frozen. Don't be afraid, you can touch her." Porter felt the girl's face. It was smooth, and felt warm. "We can't stay much longer — we need heated suits d o w n here," Rogachev told him. "Take a good look — walk round her. She's tall, isn't she? A good face." Porter walked round the case. "What's her story?" he said. "A unique one: you'll never see anything like her. She's been like that for forty thousand years. I found her in a block of ice. She's one of two types we all come from, perhaps the mother of millions — she had given birth before. I don't k n o w what happened to the earlier child, but the child she was carrying I k n o w a lot about!" He closed the lid and turned his chair and moved towards the door. Porter followed him.

Kolymsky Heights

A few steps up the ramp Porter stopped and looked back. "What's happened here?" he asked. Rogachev stopped his chair and also looked down. His mouth twisted slightly in a smile. " W h e r e do I start?"

"In 1952, suddenly, without reason, I was arrested and sent to Kolyma and the little camp at Panarovka. At that camp I met Zhelikov for the first time. Zhelikov, already an important scientist, was preparing a series of lectures. He k n e w that I was a young low-temperature specialist, and on my arrival he obtained permission for me to assist him. " T h e lectures were a great success, but soon afterwards Zhelikov was suddenly taken from the camp one night. I did not k n o w why at the time; I learned the reasons years later at Tcherny Vodi. " T h e r e were three reasons. T h e first — and craziest — was Stalin's most secret project. In his final years the Soviet leader became interested in the idea of human hibernation, convincing himself that he could leave his live body for the future of the nation. W o r k had to begin urgently, and in the greatest secrecy, on how he should be hibernated. T h e leading expert on hibernation was Zhelikov, and the most secret place in the Soviet Union was Tcherny Vodi. " T h e second reason concerned Tcherny Vodi itself. In 1952 the research station was engaged in work on chemical and biological weapons, its activities hidden by a weather station that had been on the site for many years. T h e work required large numbers of test animals, and the severe weather made this very difficult.' A project for breeding stronger animals that could adapt to the ice was started. It was discovered that the prisoner at Panarovka could be the man for this, too. As well as being a world expert on hibernation, he was also an expert on the breeding of animals. "But the third reason — Zhelikov's own — was one he had already raised in his lectures. It concerned Siberia. T h e area was now understood

The Ring and the Book

to be the richest on earth. It had more oil than Arabia, more gold and diamonds than Africa. Most of this wealth, however, was locked in the ice, and forced labour alone would never be sufficient to provide access to it. It seemed unlikely that people would ever come in useful numbers to work in such a place. Zhelikov's idea was to improve the intelligence of animals to do it. His own last work had been with the most intelligent animals. He had worked with apes, and had managed to train them to solve mathematical problems. "Zhelikov stayed a week in the Kremlin, and during the following one he took up the post of director at Tcherny Vodi. "In the summer and autumn of 1952, engineers removed the top of the mountain and began mining inside it. Zhelikov organised these operations, and made dramatic changes in how the research station was staffed. All the workers became free workers, although unable to leave, and Zhelikov had inquiries made by the security services to attract other specialists. He offered the highest scientific freedom with the best living conditions in the Soviet Union. A n d he had apes flown in from the Caucasus. "In this period Stalin died — of a heart attack, March 1953. T h e government that followed had no interest in hibernation but a great deal of interest in Zhelikov's other developments; and these had by now already cost several million dollars. "Zhelikov's apes, by the early 1960s, were far ahead of anything in the world. He had one that could walk upright, dress itself in w a r m clothing, pack and unpack a package. But there was still a major problem: the most intelligent apes did not adapt well to the extreme weather conditions. Zhelikov began to concentrate on cell behaviour at low temperatures — and also, again, on hibernation. "In 1976 Zhelikov developed cancer, around the same time that my wife was killed. In the months following her death I suffered terribly; I felt my life had lost all meaning. My friends, my colleagues, all urged a return to work. I returned to my post, but could not work.

Kolymsky Heights

" T h e n a certain academic began paying me visits. T h e man was only distantly familiar to me, yet he seemed to have a very knowledgeable interest in both my personal situation and my publications. After a series of conversations, he told me about a research station in the north which needed a new director. T h e job offered the best scientific resources and the best living conditions available. But there were some very important negative aspects, the most obvious one being that the person appointed to the station would never be able to leave it. "I said I would do it, and my reasons were simple. I k n e w that my life had to go on, and that I had to make changes to it. Six weeks later, without even the opportunity to say goodbye to friends and family, I travelled to the research station to take over Zhelikov's work. "Just before he died, in February 1977, there was an important new development. A fresh ape had been discovered. A very fresh one, quick frozen in ice. " H e never saw the result, of course — what you have seen. But now —" Rogachev was looking at his watch, "it's almost three in the morning. Stepan still has to get you back." " Y o u said you had two things to show me." "Yes. T h e other is . . . not quite ready. W h a t the satellite saw was mainly Zhelikov's work. W h a t I have done, you will see for yourself. The subject will demonstrate it to you." Porter looked at him. " T h e subject is an ape?" he said. "You'll tell me. I'm not sure that I know." He was smiling. "Anyway, you'll have to come down again." He explained how this would be managed. " N o w I'll get Stepan. Remember, you have not met me." His chair wheeled out of the room, and presently Porter heard the sound of a key turning. T h e n silence for several minutes, and Stepan came in. He looked very sleepy, and had a big watch in his hand.

The Ring and the Book

"By G o d ! Almost three o'clock," he said. "You were with him half the night. You've got the letter?" " N o . " Kolya was very serious. "He's rewriting the letter. He says I have to come again." "What!" "Stepan — this man isn't normal! He says he will bring me a ring — the mother's wedding ring. I am to take it to the grave. Tell me, is he mad?" Stepan's mouth had fallen open. "I don't know. I've never met him," he said. " T h e chief will have to arrange it again, then. A n d he isn't well himself. He said nothing about the chief?" "Nothing. Only about the girl."

"Ludmilla — Ludmilla, my dear, how are y o u ? " " T h a n k you, I am well." "I have brought a visitor. Y o u don't mind seeing a visitor, L u d m i l l a ? " " N o , I don't mind," the ape said, and put her glasses on. She smiled at them from the bed. She had a sweet face, although her eyes were bandaged. She was wearing a nightdress; and also, Porter saw, a number of other bandages. L i k e Rogachev she seemed to have lost much hair and skin. It took him a moment to realise that the glasses had gone over the bandaged eyes and that she was now protecting them slightly with her hand. "She has no eyes," Rogachev said, in English. "A result of the explosion. We could have restored them but I wouldn't put her through the operation. She hasn't long to live. Y o u can see well, my dear?" he asked in Russian. "Yes, I can see well, Uncle." "This visitor is Raven. A r e you pleased to meet h i m ? " "I am very pleased to meet you," Ludmilla said, and extended her hand.

Kolymsky Heights

"Ludmilla, I am very pleased to meet you," Porter said, and shook the hand. T h e front was brown, the back of it pink and hairy. There was a sweet, thoughtful expression on her face as she looked through her glasses. But she was certainly an ape. "You were hurt, I hear," he said. "Yes, I was hurt in the fire. Uncle made me better." "Tell Raven how nicely you see now," said Rogachev. "I see nicely now," Ludmilla said, smiling. " T a k e your glasses off, my dear." Ludmilla took them off, and Rogachev shone a torch at the bandages. " N o w we'll play a game again," he said. " H a v e I got the light on?" " N o , of course you haven't." Ludmilla was smiling. "All right. N o w , " Rogachev said, and switched the torch off. "Now what have I d o n e ? " "Silly! Y o u haven't done anything," Ludmilla said, laughing. She felt for his hand, and he moved it, and she felt in the air until he gave it to her. She kissed the hand, and he bent and kissed hers and then her blue lips. "My little darling — you're so clever! Stay in the dark a moment. I want Raven to examine you. It won't hurt." He parted the hair behind Ludmilla's ears. " T h e glasses are her eyes," he said in English. " A n d they connect with these." A small piece of metal was set behind each ear. " T h e y w o r k like natural eyes and give her almost perfect vision. She can even read with them. But we must leave her now. Good night, Ludmilla." " G o o d night, Uncle." "Well then," Rogachev said, as they left the room, "tell me what I have made. A n d this is only half of it." Porter remained silent, watching him relock the door. "There's more — far more," said Rogachev. " A n d yet we had set out to do something totally different."

The Ring and the Book

"We set out to copy parts of a foetus, of Sibir's foetus. " T h e father of the foetus had been a Neanderthaloid: a prehuman form with some vital physical differences from ourselves. T h e most important was that Neanderthaloids came out in the dark and had to see in the dark. For us this was very important. H a l f the year we are in the dark here, and Zhelikov had tried with his 'worker' apes to improve their darkness vision, but without success. So we had an extraordinary opportunity: to copy what we could of this new/old visual system from the brain of the foetus. " W e experimented, first with rats and then with apes and made a dramatic discovery. We found that the visual system could be reproduced artificially and that we could restore vision. We had found an answer to blindness! All we needed now was some kind of artificial eye, and a framework in which to use it. " T h e framework was obvious, for it already existed — the familiar frame for a pair of glasses. A n d the eye itself posed no great problem. We developed 'patches' that we placed under the skin above the ears, with small pieces of metal behind the ear for the arm of the glasses to make contact with. (You will be taking a full record of all our work with you: here I give you the general idea.) "A very important scientific advance had been made, and nobody doubted that a Nobel Prize must follow when it was published. T h e n something happened which changed everything. "Ours was a military establishment. It had produced military weapons. We knew of other weapons developed here — disgusting ones. Giving sight to the blind was a wonderful thing. But for my Director in Moscow it was the military applications of our discovery that were most important. Of our military w o r k here I will not speak. I will say nothing of the explosion, or the experiments leading up to it, except that it was disastrous. We lost our laboratory. We lost the apes' living quarters —

Kolymsky Heights

also their medical centre. Several apes were in there recovering from the operation, their eyes bandaged. T h e few w h o survived the explosion we got outside as soon as possible. " T h e situation was now desperate. Those apes still alive were badly injured. In a few weeks, only one of them was left — the least representative one. Ludmilla is the result of an experiment — an unforgivable one that must never be repeated! I copied the cell network in the brain of Sibir's foetus to create 'intelligence'. "Ludmilla is neither ape nor human. In fact she is part Sibir, part Neanderthaloid and part ape. She is an animal, but with a mind that, I think, is human. T h e apes did not accept her and she lived apart, attached only to me. She even slept in a room near mine, which is why she should have been safe on the night of explosion. But she rushed out, looking for me. " Y o u have seen the consequences. She was horribly blinded — her eyes requiring urgent removal and destruction — and so she became our first real patient. T h e others, remember, were experiments, still with their o w n eyes. " T h e operation is quite simple now. All the parts of it are here."

" A l l here." Porter thought at first he was being offered a chocolate, a goldwrapped-chocolate. T h e old man sat looking at it in his open hand. Then he took another out of the drawer: this one was silver-wrapped. " O n disk. Four-centimetre disk. T h e silver one is a personal one for you. T h e other has the technical information, a few hundred pages. They'll k n o w what to do with it, the people you give it to." Porter looked at them. " W h a t do I do with t h e m ? " Rogachev looked in the drawer again and withdrew a belt. " T h e y go in here. A n d the belt next to your skin. Don't try and open the cases, because there is a temperature lock — they can only be opened

The Ring and the Book

at minus two hundred and forty degrees. Otherwise they'll be destroyed. Now — it's late. Do you want a last d r i n k ? " It was very late. It was almost three, and again they had talked almost a l l night. Porter went and got himself a drink, and when he came back he found the old man sitting with his eyes closed. But the disks were in the belt, and on the desk under his hand was an envelope. "Here's the letter. You'll need to show the Evenks. It's just blank paper — a few sheets." " H o w about the ring? Do I tell them it couldn't be found?" " N o , it's here." He opened his hand. "My wife's, actually . . . There's no one to send it to, and I'll be dead in a few weeks. Y o u have it." He turned it over and over in his hands for a few moments, smiling to himself. T h e n he offered it to Porter. "Read what's written on it." Porter looked closely at the Russian words: " A s our love the circle has no end." He read them silently. "Her death is why I'm here," Rogachev said simply. "This is how it happened. Life is a funny circle, isn't it? Well that's the ring. A n d here's the book." " T h e book?" " T h e results of our research in book form, on disk for publication. Put the belt on." Porter put it on, under his clothing. "Remember, the gold disk has the technical information. N o w . . . Do I thank you again, or is it just goodbye?" It was just goodbye, without words. A n d it was in the library; their four hands held for long seconds. T h e n the chair was moving out of the room, and Porter's last view was of a single arm raised.

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

At the time that Kolya Khodyan and the Evenks learned that a name had been chosen for the baby, another man was learning some news, far away. It was eight time zones away, and eight o'clock in the morning. Alexei Ponomarenko was sitting outside a cafe in Batumi, Georgia. He looked up from his newspaper and stared out at the sea. H o w he hated the Black Sea!

He missed

the north very m u c h .

W o n d e r f u l G r e e n Cape.

Wonderful Kolymsky. Pure snow, good friends, plenty of money. He thought about the apartment he had left behind in June. Here he lived like a poor man, and he had little money left. He read the newspaper story again, but still could not believe it was true. It was time to see a lawyer.

" T h e government wants to deal with organised crime," the lawyer explained. " T h e y are prepared to pardon lesser drug offenders who can provide information." " W h a t about other, well, matters? W h a t if they found that the man had a wife and . . ." T h e lawyer laughed. "My dear friend," he said, "they are interested in serious crime. T h e y don't care about these — personal matters." Ponomarenko lit a cigarette. T h i s was wonderful news. They had been threatening him since soon after he arrived in Batumi. Six months ago — in June. " C o u l d you contact the authorities for m e ? " he said, slowly. "I have a story to tell them."

T h e story Ponomarenko told was a remarkable one. T h e agent who had trapped him had wanted the keys to his apartment in Green Cape,

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

and detailed information on his life there. This agent had also shown a strange interest in a chance native companion: a driver called Kolya, whom he had met in a bar. Ponomarenko had no idea why. Kolya had been glad to talk about himself and he had let him talk. Later he passed on the details. Kolya what? He couldn't remember. W h a t details? He couldn't remember those, either. Something about C h u k o t k a , and various places the guy had been. He was a native, a Chukchee. Only stayed a few days, anyway. Hadn't seen him again. But at two o'clock a fax arrived from the Georgian capital, Tblisi, that identified this C h u k c h e e as N i k o l a i Dmitrievich K h o d y a n . T h i s Khodyan was presently occupying Ponomarenko's apartment in Green Cape. T h e origin of the fax was Tchersky — the same time zone as Tcherny Vodi. There it was now ten p.m., and Kolya was just preparing to go through the wall.

W h e n Porter entered Komarova's surgery the following afternoon, he saw at once that something was wrong. Her face was paler than ever. She sat at a table with a pile of papers, her medical case open. "Well? A n y medical problems?" "I've pulled a muscle, Doctor. Here in my back." She examined him. "Yes, I can feel it. G u a r d ! " T h e guard outside the door looked in. "Send my driver in." T h e guard looked at her, and shook his head. "Can't do that, Doctor. If there's something you want, I'll send for it." "It's diethylamine salicylate solution, and quickly please." " T h e — what was that?" " T h e diethylamine sal driver in!" she said angrily.

Oh I haven't got time for this! Send that

Kolymsky Heights

"Doctor I — Well, for a moment," he said, seeing her mouth open again. In a minute or t w o the guard returned with the driver. "Leave the room, guard!" "Doctor, he can't come in here unaccompanied." " A n d you can't come in when I have a patient! Get out at once!" T h e guard left the room, and the medical officer closed the door on him. She stood against it while the two remaining men quickly changed places, and clothes. Papers, too, passed between them. T h e guard soon returned with the medicine, and Porter was accompanied back to the bobik. Ten minutes later he got out to open the passenger door for Medical Officer Komarova. She was leaning on her stick and carrying a file of medical papers, one guard holding her medical case. Major Militsky hurried out of his office. " Y o u will not stay for something to eat, Medical Officer?" " N o , thank you, Major." She handed over the file. " A n d thank you for your help over the baby's name. T h e Evenks are happy about it. It means a lot to them." " W e must respect their traditions. It was a pleasure." Major Militsky helped her into the bobik. "Goodbye, Medical Officer." "Goodbye, Major." "Until next time . . . O f f you go, Sergeant." A n d off they went, through the t w o sets of gates and d o w n the icy path. "What's w r o n g ? " asked Porter, as they entered the creek. She had heard the news this morning. Her secretary had telephoned to say that the Tchersky militia wanted the Chukchee driver, Khodyan. W h y ? T h e secretary did not know, but they had asked for the medical officer to call them. T h i s she had done immediately. T h e militia chief was an old patient, and he had told her they had had

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

an inquiry late the previous night from Batumi, on the Black Sea. A man called Ponomarenko was being held there, and Tchersky had been asked to find out who was at present occupying his apartment. He had told them it was Khodyan and they had asked for him to be held and his papers checked. F r o m the transport company he had heard that Komarova had him for a few days. Was she coming back now? Yes, some time today. Was this man a criminal? This was not what the militia chief had been told — they probably just needed to confirm Ponomarenko's story. T h e y ' d be sending him more information on it. Anyway, tell Khodyan to call into the militia station with his papers when they returned. T h e y drove for some minutes in silence. "You can't go back to Green Cape," she said. "No." He kept silent and she looked at him. "If they're asking about the apartment," he said at last, "it means he has told them everything. T h e y know about me." He stopped the car suddenly. "You spoke to this militia man soon after nine. N o w it's two. Call your office. See if he's been in contact again." She switched on her phone, and called in. N o . Nothing. No messages. He lit a cigarette. "Soon they'll have the photographs of K h o d y a n , " he said softly. " T h e y won't match mine . .. W h y didn't they get in touch with Tcherny Vodi? They knew you were going." "Only the medical office can contact Tcherny Vodi, and they can only do it on medical business. T h e commander can make calls out, the militia certainly can't call in." He nodded. "There's an eight-hour time difference, isn't there? T h a t means that

Kolymsky Heights

it will be six in the morning in Batumi. Maybe nothing happened in the night. We could still have a couple of hours." "For you to catch a plane?" "A plane to where? N o . If Ponomarenko has talked, maybe they have the agent. I don't k n o w how much he knew, but I can't risk . . . I have to think. We'll drive to the edge of Tchersky, and you can call again." Outside Tchersky she called in once more. It was now after three o'clock. Nothing. Porter listened carefully to the voice on the radio, but could hear no sign of concern or alarm. "Tell them you'll be in soon," he told her, quietly. T h i s message she passed on; and now he told her what they would do.

Lights were on in all windows of the administrative building in Tchersky, and he drove once around the square looking for any sign of unusual activity. T h e r e was none, so he drove through the gates at the back of the medical centre. His o w n bobik was still standing there, but the poorly lit yard was quite deserted. He helped her out and went into the building. T w o packers came cheerfully out to unload the van. "Kolya, remember the militia," she said, as they did so. " A n d don't forget your papers." He helped the two packers finish the unloading, carrying in the last of the boxes. "That's the lot. See you again, boys." "Sure. A n d thanks, Kolya." He went out and found her by the back of the empty bobik. He quickly climbed in the back, and she locked the doors and went into the building. It was almost four o'clock, and she didn't stay long. Back in the bobik she drove the short journey home. She parked in the shed, and let him out of the back. He waited there until she had unlocked

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

the front door. She didn't switch the light on but returned to close the shed, and in the dark he went ahead of her into the house.

T h e militia phoned at six o'clock, and fifteen minutes later they were ringing at the doorbell. "I'm sorry, Medical Officer, but the C h i e f couldn't tell you everything on the phone. There's something odd about this fellow w h o was driving you." "You've w o k e n me for that, Sergeant? I've been travelling for three hard days — I need some sleep!" " W e can't find him. He didn't go home." "Maybe he went to a friend's." " N o t to any we k n o w about. A n d his bobik is still at the medical centre. He left it there." "Well — he knew he had to go and report with his papers. I think I even reminded him." "You did. T h e packers at the medical centre remembered it." " T h e n — probably he found a bottle, and is sitting drinking it somewhere. Y o u k n o w how it is with them." "Yes, that's what I think myself," the militia man said. "But they're waiting for a report from us at Irkutsk. T h e y don't k n o w how things are here. Can we sit d o w n ? " " O f course. I'm sorry. Help yourself to a drink." She gave them a couple of glasses. "Irkutsk?" she said, confused. "Counter Intelligence,"* said the sergeant. " T h e y run about looking for spies there. It keeps them happy." "A Chukchee spy?" she asked in surprise. "I know, it's crazy," the militia man agreed, raising his glass. "But this

"Counter Intelligence: a government organisation which aims to defend national security

Kolymsky Heights

fellow isn't w h o he says he is. T h e y sent in some pictures of him; it's a different man. T h i s one probably stole Khodyan's papers and changed the photo." " W h y would he want to do that?" " W h o knows? Trouble with a wife? He must have met Khodyan on the Black Sea. W h a t he's doing with Ponomarenko's apartment is a mystery. T h e y ' v e told us nothing yet. To them he's a spy, of course — a spy from C h u k o t k a ! " he said. "Anyway, if you tell us all you know, we can pass it on to them." " W h a t else can I tell y o u ? " She watched as the sergeant took his notebook out. "Maybe his reaction — when he heard we wanted him." "Well — he was annoyed. He thought it was just because he was a C h u k c h e e . I had to take him off long-distance journeys, you know — his medical record showed he had a heart problem." " D i d he seem nervous to y o u ? " " W e l l . . . not that I could tell. He drove into the yard and went in to get the packers, and helped unload the van. W h e n they had finished he went." "Where?" " O u t of the yard, I suppose." " A n d he left his bobik standing there?" " W h a t would he want with the bobik? T h e militia station is almost next door." " H e didn't go to it. W h e r e could he have gone on foot?" " L o o k , Sergeant, I'm tired. Probably he's drinking somewhere now, wondering what to do." T h e Sergeant nodded. " H e must be in Tchersky, anyway. He won't have walked the four kilometres to Green Cape. He could have got a lift, of course . . . T h a n k s for your help. If you hear from him, find out where he is and contact us."

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

"All right." She waited until the car had gone and went and opened the shed door. This was Friday night.

T h e y left at nine o'clock when traffic had stopped and it was silent outside. He was certain that a house-to-house search would begin and knew he had to leave immediately. He drove out through the creek to the cave, and she tried to memorise the fifty-five kilometre route. In the headlights she saw the place for the first time. It was as he had left it the previous weekend, when he had arrived at her house at five in the morning. " O K , don't wait now," he said. It would take her at least two and a half hours to get back, and now it was almost midnight. " C o m e back tomorrow night. Be very careful." " O h , Johnny!" "Kolya! Only that!" he said, removing her arms. " A n d no goodbyes — just go, Tanya-Panya." He waited outside while she turned the bobik, and then went back in. There were pieces of the bobik all over the floor. H o w could he turn this mess into a car? But he had no choice: the car had to be ready by the time she returned.

By midday on Sunday an embarrassing situation had arisen in Tchersky. T h e native driver pretending to be Khodyan had driven into town at four p.m. on Friday. He had helped unload a truck in the yard of a building next to the militia headquarters and had then disappeared. Almost forty-eight hours ago. There was nowhere that he could have gone. T h e militia had searched every building in Tchersky — he wasn't in Tchersky. But if he wasn't in Tchersky, how had he got out of it? He hadn't taken his own vehicle, and he hadn't taken anybody else's. No vehicles were missing.

Kolymsky Heights

Apart from Green Cape, four kilometres away, there was nowhere else to go. A n d yet when they searched the houses in Green Cape, he was not there either. T h a t left the sheds and stores of the Transport Company. T h e militia began to search each and every one.

By quarter to two she had still not arrived and he began to get seriously worried. H a d she missed the turnings? Or had she passed the cave? He smoked another cigarette, and at half past two he went outside. It was completely dark, unbelievably cold, at least sixty below. He looked both ways for some sign of a car's lights. Nothing. She wasn't coming. He went back into the cave, laid the sleeping bag in the bobik, and climbed in. He had just settled himself when he heard the sound of an engine, a bobik engine. A n d from the direction of Green Cape. He went to the entrance, and looked out through the branches. He saw the light in the sky and suddenly the headlights, swinging round the bend. T h e car came on, very slowly. He couldn't see w h o was in it. T h e n it slowed further, and he saw the shape of her head. He switched the torch on. " G o d ! " She got out and put her arms around him. "I'm so sorry, my darling! I couldn't leave before. T h e y were searching." He took her inside, listening to her hurried story. T h e militia had started in the afternoon. Her house had been the last they had searched in Tchersky, and they had not finished until midnight. T h e n she'd had to wait another half an hour to make sure it was safe to take out the bobik. She had got everything: petrol, food, coffee. F r o m the post office she had bought a child's compass and a schoolbook containing maps of Siberia — it was all they had. Most importantly she had brought the battery. He lowered it into position and then checked that everything was in place. He drew a breath. "Well. Here goes," he said. To their relief the engine started, filling the cave with noise.

Who is Kolya Khodyan?

She put her arms around his neck. " O h darling, please be safe!" she cried. "I need you in my life. Tell me you love me." "Yes. I love you," he said, and meant it. He was moved by her and she had fallen very much in love with him. But now he wanted her away. "I couldn't get a proper map. Do you k n o w where you're g o i n g ? " " N o , " he said. But he did. "I will work something out." "Darling. It's only goodbye for now, isn't it?" "It's only for now," he said. "I love you for ever. You know that. Tell me you love me again." "For ever and ever," he said, pressing Rogachev's w e d d i n g ring into her hand. "I love you, lovely Tanya-Panya."

As she drove on to the main river an aircraft passed over her, and she saw its lights emerging from the clouds. Many kilometres ahead, unusual activity was taking place on the river. Although it was almost three in the morning, all the senior staff at the militia headquarters were waiting to meet the major general of security. "What's this — have the fools sent out the town band?" he said, looking out of the w i n d o w as the plane landed. T h e general had a team of four with him and they went slowly down the steps. T h e chief of militia stepped forward. " A r e you the head of the militia here?" "Yes, General." "Right, I want details of all the driving routes. He's gone south or east." "General, I don't think he's gone anywhere. T h i s man k n o w s there isn't anywhere to go. He's a native, drinking his way through a problem. I know his type." T h e general stopped him, with a wave of his hand. "You know this fellow, do y o u ? " "A hundred people know him! Everyone says

"

Kolymsky Heights

"He's a foreign agent," the general told him. "His operation was set up in June. Khodyan's papers were stolen in June. This man is not Khodyan

"

"General?" " T h e real Khodyan reported his stolen papers to the militia. Thirtysix hours later he found them in the pocket of his suitcase. End of inquiry. W h a t nobody realised was that the papers had been copied. N o w get me some maps: I want every route leading out of here searched. He must be hiding somewhere." T h e first of the search vehicles set off just before five a.m. T h e y were heading for A n y u y s k , and for the turning leading off to Provodnoye.

He took the bobik out, directed its headlight into the cave and walked in for a final inspection. Everything was O K . T h e r e was no sign that he had been there. Six a.m. on his watch. He left, and didn't look back.

By six thirty a Tchersky militia vehicle was driving slowly down the river from Anyuysk to Provodnoye. It was an extremely difficult journey. Even with the big headlights it was difficult to see the bends until you came to them. Suddenly the driver turned off the lights. " W h a t are you d o i n g ? " cried his companion, alarmed. "There's a car!" "Where?" T h e driver stopped the engine, and they both sat staring in the dark. T h e driver opened the window. Silence.

Porter had turned off his lights and now sat watching those of the

Kolymsky Heights

militia. T h e y were moving again and he could hear their engine. He was less than a kilometre away. He had left just in time. In the dark he found a cigarette and lit it. A few minutes more and they'd have met. He'd been going slowly, searching for the stream he had noticed a few weeks before. From maps in the administrative centre he had learned that the stream eventually led to the Bilibino highway. There was an airport at Bilibino. T h e only map he had with him was in the schoolbook, where the long range of peaks were coloured purple, with only a general title: Kolymsky Heights. A tremendous journey. He didn't k n o w if a bobik could do it. And this was a homemade bobik, built in a cave. But if it couldn't? He let the militia go and started the engine.

Kolymsky Heights

He drove along the stream with great difficulty, but a little after one p.m. he came to a bridge. Turning off the lights, he got out to inspect it. He climbed the bank and found himself on the Bilibino highway. It couldn't be anything else: six metres wide, levelled, a made road. But where on the highway? Left must go to Tchersky, and right to Bilibino, but how far either way? He went down again and drove the bobik up. T h e road ran straight, there was no light visible. For the first time he used all the car's gears, and for the first time the car really began to move — seventy kilometres an hour, and eighty and eighty-five.

Kolymsky Heights

Presently he saw the lights of a road station far ahead, and he turned off his headlights. As he approached it he switched off the sidelights too. He stopped just outside the road station, switched off the engine and opened the window. Faint music came from the hut. He looked more closely and saw that it was the same hut he had been in before. T h i s was the first road station — there were still six hundred kilometres to go . . .

Road Station N u m b e r 3; goodbye. Five p.m. He was m a k i n g good time, but also tiring fast. Eleven hours of driving since he'd left the cave. A n d the mountains would be coming up. He had to find a place soon. He drove slowly, looking for it. In starlight, from a hilltop, he saw it: another bridge over another frozen stream. He drove down, on to the stream and under the bridge.

He slept there for two hours, with the heater off to save fuel. The bobik was freezing when he w o k e up, and he started the engine and the heater. Eight o'clock. By ten, despite the turns and bends of the mountains, he had reached Road Station N u m b e r 4. He had decided to find some petrol here. A few litres should take him to Bilibino, with some extra to find the airport. He hadn't seen it on his last visit, and in a mountainous area it could be far out. He drove in without lights, and got out with a couple of petrol cans. He filled them quickly from trucks that were parked there, and transferred them to the bobik. He was returning to refill the cans when the door of the hut opened. T w o men, laughing, were w a l k i n g towards a second bobik. He hid behind a truck and heard them shout goodbye to others still at the hut door. T h e men got into their bobik and he watched it go. Light from the

Kolymsky Heights

hut door shone onto the trucks for a few seconds, and then the door closed. He stood for some moments, quite still. T h e n he went back and looked at the trucks. A thick coat of ice covered every one. T h e engines had not been used for hours — probably not all day. He had seen no trucks on the road at all. He got back in the bobik and drove off fast. He had to get out of the mountains. There was nowhere to hide here. He had gone almost t w o thirds of the way to Bilibino. A n d obviously all traffic to Bilibino had been stopped. This was very bad news. Tchersky's militia couldn't have done this — not so far out of their region. Only the Counter Intelligence people at Irkutsk could have done it. Their investigators were already in Tchersky then. A n d they knew he was going to Bilibino. W h a t other reason could there be for stopping all the traffic to and from it? A n d the only reason for Bilibino could be the airport. So they knew that too. He couldn't go to Bilibino airport. For the first time since leaving Japan he had no idea what to do. He couldn't go back. He couldn't just stop. There did not seem any reason to go on. There was only one thing they didn't know about: the bobik. It didn't exist. A n d it was driving better than ever. Since he didn't know what else to do, he drove on.

T h e man was a professional — the general quickly realised that. H o w could he get to an airport — and not Tchersky airport, since Tchersky militia wanted him? In a vehicle. An early thought had been a Transport Company vehicle; but now the general thought otherwise. This man would already have arranged a vehicle for himself. But from where? Since he disappeared in Tchersky the answer

Kolymsky Heights

seemed to be — in Tchersky. But no vehicle was missing from Tchersky; or no vehicle had been reported missing, which was rather different. If the vehicle had not been in Tchersky, then he had been taken to it. In either case, someone was helping him. W h y had a spy come to the area? He could only be here to get into Tcherny Vodi. A n d the general had learned since his arrival that he had managed to get to it. T h e general had tried to get to it himself, and had found that he needed special permission from the establishment. While Irkutsk was arranging this, he decided to make a personal call. T h e medical officer did not rise as he entered. As he took off his hat and his coat, he examined her carefully. "I am afraid, Medical Officer, this fellow has made a fool of you," he said. "So it seems." She was putting the top back on her pen, her smile icy. "It's not something that happens very often." "Yes, this is what I hear." His o w n smile was considerably warmer as he sat d o w n . An efficient-looking person, he saw; the first he had met in this awful place. "I hope you can help me on a few points." She hid her nervousness by looking annoyed, glancing at her watch, and at the many papers on her desk. Johnny had warned that they would send someone good, and this man certainly knew his business. She was amazed at how much he knew. He knew of the trips to Panarovka, to the Evenk herders, to Tcherny Vodi, including details the militia had not asked her about. He paused over his notes for some moments. "This man has a contact here, Medical Officer. Someone is helping him. T h e trip to the herders, for instance — how did he get that for himself?" "I am afraid I helped him to it. I couldn't drive at the time — an injured foot. Of course, anybody could have driven me to the helicopter. But he'd mentioned the herds, and he wanted a job to do."

Kolymsky Heights

T h e general stared at her. "Let me ask you about something else. On the way to Panarovka you picked him up at his apartment. But it seems you didn't take him back there. Is that right?" "Yes. Quite right." She felt her heart beat faster. "I drove him part of the way and dropped him just outside Green Cape." "Did he say why he wanted dropping there?" " N o . I assumed he was seeing a friend." " H o w far was this from the medical centre?" "About a .. . kilometre. Maybe one and a half." T h e general made a note and stared at it for some moments. T h e n he asked many more questions about the trips they had made together. She described in detail what had happened on the Friday afternoon. T h e general remained looking at her for some moments. "All right, so you go into the yard. A n d here he behaves strangely. We know he must have been in a great hurry. Yet he doesn't act in a hurry. He carefully helps the packers unload the van. He takes in the last of the stuff. Tells them it's the last. He comes out, asks you if you want anything more doing. Doesn't that seem strange?" "Well, I agree — it does." "As if he wants everyone to go away and leave him alone." "Perhaps. Yes." "Had anything come in behind you, another vehicle?" " N o t that I remember." "Some activity going on in the yard — cars moving about?" " N o , no. Nothing like that. T h e r e was nothing there. Just his own bobik — and the rubbish truck: the regular one, that takes away our rubbish." "Where does the rubbish truck g o ? " "I don't k n o w where "Is it there every day?

"

Kolymsky Heights

"Yes, I suppose so. A n d now, General, I have w o r k to do

"

She had risen, and he rose with her. "You have been very patient," he said, putting on his coat. "And also very helpful. Y o u have given much useful information." A n d so she had. She sat shaking, listening to his boots march quickly down the corridor. She had offered him a false lead, and he had gladly accepted it. But where would it take them?

Over a late dinner the general sat with his staff and explained the situation. " W h a t is likely," he said, "is that this man found something he could put together. A n d then he found a place to put it together: perhaps somewhere connected to this rubbish truck. It's possible there is more than one vehicle missing . . . T h i s fellow could get parts. Get them m o v i n g at the transport company. Let them search repair sheds, storerooms, whatever."

He drove straight past Bilibino, past the airport, past the security checks waiting for him. He was now heading for Baranikha, a tiny dot on his little map, three or four hundred kilometres away. From what he had seen of the loads going from Tchersky to Baranikha, there was heavy construction going on there. So much construction needed workers, and workers would have to be flown in. There would be an airport of some kind there. T h e idea had come to him while driving around the mountain bends. If he could not use major airports, he could try little cross-country ones. Cross-country flights, from one to another, could take him a long way — and he k n e w now he had to go a long way. A n d not at all the way that had been planned for him. No Yakutsk, no Black Sea, no Turkey. He had to take a route that nobody expected .. . T h e y didn't k n o w how he had come in. T h e y couldn't know how he would get out.

Kolymsky Heights

He pulled the bobik under a bridge and switched everything off. A quarter to eleven. There was time for two full hours' sleep. He awoke a little before one. There was still some coffee left, and he drank a mouthful. He was faint with hunger. Plenty of food left, he saw, as he pulled the bag towards him; he had moved so fast. He cut himself some bread, and tried to think when it was. Early Monday he'd left: he had driven all day and all night. Only yesterday. A n d already a thousand kilometres away. He must be close now. He pulled the map across and found Baranikha again. All the mountains were coloured purple. He found the road he was on. A major river must be coming up. T h e road ran beside it straight to Baranikha — the river itself carrying on to the Arctic. He had turned north again. N o w he had to fly south. Several flights south. He checked the road and in a few minutes was moving again, into snow. T h e road rose and fell, and quite suddenly he saw the lights of the town below. T h e road ran straight downhill to it: there were factories, lit— up apartment blocks. A n d an airport, with control tower, buildings, car park. He sat and watched it for some minutes. There didn't seem to be a barrier. He drove carefully down and entered the car park. No militia, no people even, just a few vans and old w o r k buses, all covered in snow. He parked the bobik, put a few things into his bag, and walked over to the airport building. A dirty hall, crowded with people. T h e y had all, obviously, been here a long time. Every seat was taken and everywhere people were sleeping — on chairs, benches, the floor. All flights stopped, evidently. Were they looking for him here, too? He went over to the check-in desk, saw the flight board on the wall. A list of flight numbers: all times blank.

Kolymsky Heights

A group of w o r k i n g men were waiting here, many of them native. He picked one w h o looked like a Chukchee. "What's going on, brother?" he asked. " T h e y ' r e giving out the tickets. For Mitlakino." "What's the delay?" " N o delay. T h e storm isn't heading there." A storm: not him, then. " H o w about M a g a d a n ? " he said. " M a g a d a n ? " the man stared at him, and he saw now that he was drunk. "There's nothing going to Magadan for another thirty-six hours. Your job finished here?" "That's right. What's the other place — Mitla w h a t ? " "Mitlakino. There's w o r k there. See the notice." T h e notice was beyond the desk, on the wall behind it. He leaned over and read it.

Mitlakino (Chukotka) Construction workers required. Transport, food and accommodation provided.

C h u k o t k a — that was as far east as you could go. It was south he wanted. But there would be no way south for thirty-six hours. He pushed his way to the bar, where the end wall was papered with an enormous map of Siberia. W h a t was the best thing to do? To get as far away as possible was obviously best — but as far east as C h u k o t k a ? From there, with the storm over, he should be able to fly south to Magadan. Better than staying here, anyway. "What's the problem, brother?" T h e drunk man had found him. " N o problem," Porter said. " A r e you going to Mitlakino?" "Yes, Mitlakino is a good place: Chukchees are good fellows. You're not a C h u k c h e e ? " " N o , " Porter said. T h e man was very drunk. "Evenk." "Evenks all right. Listen, you got something to d r i n k ? "

Kolymsky Heights

"I've got something for me. W h e n does the flight leave?" "Soon. But there's time for a little drink." Porter looked up at the flights board. T h e Mitlakino time was now up, the only one up. It wasn't so soon.

Mitlakino 1800

T h e airport clock showed four fifteen. " O K , " Porter said, "we'll have a little drink. But put your papers away, you'll lose them." T h e man was still holding his tickets and his identity papers in his hand. " A n d we don't want anyone sharing — we'll find a place of our own." T h e y found a place in the cleaning cupboard. T h e notice on the door said " K E E P O U T " , but wasn't locked. T h e cleaning cupboard was hot and he helped the C h u k c h e e take off his backpack and his skis. T h e n Porter took a bottle from his bag and the man's eyes lit up. "You're a good fellow." By ten to five the bottle was empty and the Chukchee was asleep. Porter took his papers, and also the backpack and skis. He collected his bag, switched the light off, and went rapidly back through the crowded hall. 1705 on the wall clock. 1800 on the flight board. He put everything in the bobik and drove out of the car park. It was still snowing as he went back up the hill, to the place where he'd first seen the town, the river and the valley on his left. He got out of the car and looked down at the frozen waterfalls below. It was deep; he couldn't see the bottom. T h e bobik wouldn't be seen until the spring. He transferred what he needed to the backpack. T h e n he pushed the bobik backwards downhill. After watching it disappear into the darkness, he put on the skis and raced back to the car park in fifteen minutes. He was inside the airport in time to hear an announcement. "Mitlakino — final call. All passengers for Mitlakino and Mishmita

Kolymsky Heights

go at once to the aircraft." T h e last few passengers were still going through and he joined them. Not a direct flight then. A n d something strange about the names. Mitlakino he'd only heard a couple of hours before, but Mishmita seemed familiar. T h e plane was an old three-engine Yak, and inside there were skis and backpacks everywhere. A r o u n d sixty men were aboard, and he found himself next to a bad-tempered Russian, evidently a professional man. " G o inside — I get off first," the man ordered. " W h e r e you get off?" Porter asked him, in a friendly way. "Mishmita." "Don't k n o w Mishmita. What's Mishmita?" " 'Mys,' " the Russian told him. " N o t 'mish'. 'Mys.' Mys Schmidta." Mys Schmidta — Cape Schmidta! Last seen on the chart-room table of the Suzahu Maru. F r o m there to the mouth of the Kolyma, forty-seven hours. N o w he was going back the way he'd come! An idea began slowly to form. "Excuse me," he said to the Russian. "You are an educated man. Is Mitlakino on the sea, the A r c t i c ? " " N o t on the Arctic, no. Inland a little. Cape Dezhnev. T h e sea there we call the Bering Strait. You've heard of it, perhaps?" "No." But yes! Of course, the Bering Strait. Go far enough east and you . . . T h e plane stopped at Mys Schmidta after an hour and the Russian got out. Porter took his little book of maps from his backpack. It showed Kolymsky school students the sea between Russia and its nearest neighbour. T h e Bering Strait was eighty-five kilometres wide. In the middle were two islands. T h e Greater Diomede Island was Russian, the Lesser Diomede American. Only four kilometres between them .. .

T h e general was having dinner with his staff when the call came through. He took the phone himself and was amazed by what he heard.

Among the Eskimos

"They've found him where? Say it again." He looked round at his staff. "Baranikha?" he said.

A m o n g the E s k i m o s

They landed at nine o'clock and snow tanks were waiting to take the forty men to the workers' accommodation block. T h e journey was short, but snow was now falling heavily. He got himself into the last of the vehicles. No one had questioned his presence so far and the absence of the other man had not been noticed. But time was passing, and it was now four and a half hours since the Chukchee had fallen asleep. He could be w a k i n g up. There was a crowd of men waiting for rooms. At the desk the clerk was having an angry telephone conversation. A w r o n g permit had been provided, and the matter was being checked with Baranikha. An official shouted to the clerk that the problem could be checked in the morning, and the line of men started to move forward. He waited at the back of the line and handed in his papers last. He was given a bed and a locker. "Just leave your stuff and go straight to supper. T h e kitchen will close soon." He found his bed and then went outside again. T h e telephone line was covered with snow and he'd seen it on the way in. W i t h his knife he cut the wire, in a place where the damage would not be seen. No more talk with Baranikha. He decided to miss supper.

Kolymsky Heights

In the air the general was in angry conversation with Tchersky. T h e y ' d got the story wrong; it was obvious now. T h e Chukchee found at Baranikha was not the C h u k c h e e he wanted. T h e man at Baranikha had been found in the airport's cleaning cupboard, drunk. It seemed that some other native had stolen his flight tickets and papers and flown off with them. He had flown off with some native workers to a construction site at a place called Mitlakino. "He's trying to get to Magadan," the general informed his staff. "He'll go south from there. N o w listen," he told Tchersky. " T h a t airport at Mitlakino must be closed down. Will he have landed there yet?" Yes, he would have landed there. T h e plane had reported landing two hours ago, at nine p.m., and was staying the night due to heavy snow. T h e r e was no radio contact with it, or with the small control tower. And the telephone line at the camp was not working; Baranikha was still trying to get through. "Close it d o w n when they do get through. T h e plane is not to take off, whatever the weather. Contact the nearest military airfield to it: I'll talk to them when I land. He can't leave the camp, at least. There's nowhere for him to go."

At twelve thirty Porter climbed out of his bed, and took his boots and the backpack. Everyone in the room was sleeping. He went down to the main desk. All deserted; semi-dark. Behind the counter, a single lamp. Near the door skis leaning against the wall. He stood quite still for a moment, making sure he was alone. T h e n he went behind the counter where there were various charts and maps. After a few minutes he found the one he wanted. T h e y were forty kilometres inland from the cape. Dezhnev was to the north, Lavrentiya to the south. In between the chart showed several coastal villages: Veyemik, Tunytlino . . . Inuit villages: Eskimos. T h e islands were not on the chart. But he knew that from Veyemik

Among the Eskimos

they were directly east. Tunytlino was thirty kilometres away, and Leymin twelve kilometres below it. After that, Veyemik. T h e whole journey from where he sat now, fifty-six kilometres. O K . He replaced the chart and took a pair of skis. T h e n he opened the drawer where the clerk had put all their papers and removed his own. W i t h his backpack and skis he went out through double doors. Outside the wind was blowing and the snow falling. He walked through the snow to the shed and shone his torch. Four snow tanks and three bobiks. No keys in any of them. He swore. He couldn't travel fifty-six kilometres on little w o r k skis! He shone the torch around and saw two more snow tanks. One was out in the snow, almost buried in it. T h e other was at the mouth of the shed, a big snow tank. High, with an enclosed driver's seat. He climbed up and opened the door. Keys in.

He drove it out of the shed and well away from the building before turning right. In the dark he couldn't see the track. He turned on the lights briefly and saw that it was between two high walls of snow. He drove between them, and switched the headlights on again. Yes, this was it. On the chart the only track east led to the coast: Tunytlino. He drove for another minute and then stopped. He switched off the engine; and then the lights, too. A helicopter was flying overhead. Even above the engine he'd heard it. There seemed to be more than one. Or was it the same one, circling to find somewhere to land? He opened the w i n d o w and looked up. T h r o u g h the snow he could see a searchlight. Maybe it was a telephone crew to repair the fault. Strange, at one in the morning. He started up again and drove on with the lights off. From the air, he knew, he couldn't be seen; the vehicle was covered in snow.

Kolymsky Heights

He drove for several minutes, and stopped again. T h e sound of the helicopter was distant now, though the pilot had not landed. It was well behind him, so he switched on the sidelights and drove off again. He'd been right to move fast. T h e C h u k c h e e would be awake by now, and shouting his story to the world. At ten past two the first village appeared, Tunytlino. O u t in the darkness was America. In between, the two islands, locked in ice. All he had to do was to get into position and he could walk there. L e y m i n next, twelve kilometres. He would be there in under half an hour. He turned inland, keeping at a distance from the village until it had passed. T h e n he returned to the coast. To Veyemik, another fourteen kilometres. T h e chart had shown hills here and in a few minutes he came to them: high, snow-covered rocks. To his left there was a steep drop. He slowed to walking pace. No way of turning here. Veyemik was on a creek, so there had to be some way down to it. Whether you could drive d o w n was another question. He drove on, staring ahead. T h e frozen sea was now a long way below, and the track very narrow. It could simply end and he'd be over the side. A n d then, in a minute, everything had changed again. T h e track turned towards the sea, and he could clearly see the creek below. At the other side of it were a group of houses. Veyemik. A n d a long easy slope down to it. He drove down, crossed over to the other side of the creek, and came out behind the houses. T h r e e o'clock. He switched the lights and the engine off, and got out to have a look. T h e islands were now directly to the east. In the snow tank he could go the whole way. Except, of course, he couldn't — he would be detected at once. Both islands were certainly observation posts full of electronic devices. It would have to be on foot.

Among the Eskimos

From here the distance was greater than from Cape Dezhnev; perhaps fifty or sixty kilometres. It was, however, a simpler route, with far less chance of error. Even with the little skis he could do it in five or six hours. It was time to lose the snow tank. A stream came down from the hills to the creek. He climbed back into the vehicle and drove up it for twenty minutes. There was no hiding place, but he decided to leave it anyway. No one would find it here before next summer. A n d time was going fast. He switched off, climbed out, attached his backpack and skis and was down again quicker than he'd come up. T h e Russian island came first. It was three times the size of the American one and hid it completely. He had to rely on his compass now, because in the darkness he would be totally blind. He took off the backpack and got out the torch and compass. His hands were so cold he could hardly feel the little compass. He shone the torch down on it, and the needle s w u n g round and round. Electronic signals! T h e compass wouldn't w o r k because of electronic signals from somewhere. This was the position at four o'clock, when he realised he had no compass and no vehicle. A n d nowhere to go if he had one. T h e nearest shelter before he froze was the village of Veyemik, and he walked back desperately trying to think of something. T h e first house was also the largest house. He hammered on the door, and continued hammering until he heard babies crying and people shouting. Presently an Eskimo stood before him in his night shirt. "I stole nothing!" Porter told this Eskimo. "What?" "They're chasing me. T h e y ' v e chased me all the w a y ! " "Who's chasing y o u ? " said the Eskimo. " F r o m w h e r e ? "

Crossing the Line

F r o m Tchersky, the general was again on the phone to the airfield. It was two a.m. " W h a t do you mean he isn't there?" he said. " T h e y ' v e searched the camp, they've searched the whole site. He's nowhere on it." "But he's got to be there! He flew out there!" But this was not certain. T h e camp said it had no record of him. He had slept in no bed and eaten no meal, and deposited no papers. "But he was on that plane," the general said. " H e stole a ticket to get on it." A g a i n this was not certain. Another worker might have stolen the ticket and papers. T h e general checked with Baranikha and they confirmed that the ticket had been handed in and that the man had got on the plane. The man had certainly travelled to Mitlakino, but what happened to him there they didn't know.

" T h e y chased me from Mitlakino." "From Mitlakino you skied — from the mining c a m p ? " " W h a t could I do? T h e y ' d have killed me. I've skied all night. They hate Evenks — and the Inuit, too." He was speaking Inuit with the Eskimos. " T h e Chukchees don't trust us." "Well, I don't know." T h e Eskimo stroked his round face and looked in amazement from the Evenk to the other members of his family. Eleven of them stared back with similar amazement. "You'd better sleep now. You can sleep by the fire. In the morning we'll w o r k it out." "But you'll speak for me? Y o u won't let them take m e ? "

Crossing the Line

"In the morning we'll see. It's still snowing now. In the morning there could be fog. For now everybody sleep — it's gone four!" It was gone four. At six everybody got up again, and there was fog. A n d the Evenk, after his sleep, was much calmer. He apologised for arriving the way he did, but he had feared for his life. A man had lost money in the mine and immediately they had accused him — the only Evenk. He could prove he had stolen nothing. He had nothing. W h e n they came looking for him today "Look," the headman told him, "nobody will come looking for you today. T h e y can't. There's fog. A n d if they do come, the w o m e n will hide you." At this the Evenk showed alarm again. W h y would w o m e n have to hide him? Because the men would be away working. Fishing. At their fishing station. O u t on the ice. T h e y would be out all day. At this he showed even greater alarm. He wasn't staying all day with the women. Would they take him with them? If he wished, but there was no danger. Nobody could get here in the fog. Still if he was nervous . .. He was very nervous and he asked nervous questions. C o u l d anybody follow them? H o w far were they going? Fifty kilometres, they said, amused; and nobody could follow. Y o u needed a signal, which the authorities fitted in your vehicle. T h e signal told them on the island w h o was coming — there was an island out there. A n d it also guided you to your fishing station — you'd never find it otherwise. Nobody could follow — there was no need to be nervous! This calmed him completely, and he crowded into a vehicle with seven of the men. T h e y told him that there were two islands there, but you couldn't go to the second, it was American. Did people come out from the island to check the fishing station? Sure. Sometimes soldiers — some of them young native guys —

Kolymsky Heights

drove over in cars. But mainly it was helicopters. T h e y kept a helicopter on the island? A helicopter? T h e r e was an army of them there. If they all took off at once you couldn't hear yourself speak. Was it that near? Ten kilometres from the fishing station — which was just there ahead of them. At the fishing station there was much activity in the thick fog. Some of the men were putting up a tent; others were lighting oil lamps. All of them were on short skis, and now Porter put on his own. T h e backpack he had left in the village, and all he had taken from it was the torch. T h e y went to breakfast in the tent, and the headman cheerfully said that he could help wash the dishes in return for their protection. Suddenly the headman put his hand to his ear. "That's funny — there's one up there," the man said. "A helicopter?" He could hear it himself now, faintly. "Yes. N o t one of the island's, though. It's a big one, going there and back. It has no business being up in the fog." Porter cleared the plates away. A louder noise filled the air. " N o w the island helicopters have started! They're going up too!" " W h e r e is it, the island?" " O u t there . . . W h a t are you doing with your skis?" He was putting them on. "I'll just go out and take a look," he said. "You'll see nothing in this . . . T h e island's over there. Don't go more than a hundred paces — it's easy to get lost."

At five thirty the director of the camp called. "General, we can't find one of our snow tanks." " H o w far is to Magadan from there?"

Crossing the Line

"To Magadan?" There was a confused silence. "Well, I don't know. I would say maybe — two thousand kilometres?" " T w o thousand . . . " For the first time the general was aware that he did not know exactly where Mitlakino was. Since there was nothing in particular there, and it wasn't on Tchersky's maps, nobody had given him the location. He had thought the airfield was near Magadan. "Where are y o u ? " he said. "Where am I ? " the director said in a strange voice. "I'm at Mitlakino. Below Cape Dezhnev." "Cape D e z h n e v ! " T h e general's hand called for maps. " D e z h n e v . . . Dezhnev. Y o u mean the C h u k o t k a coast? . . . Near Tunytlino?" "Thirty kilometres away. That's where I think the snow tank

"

" T h e coast of the Bering Strait? Good G o d ! " the general said. "He's not going south. He's going

"

By six o'clock, the helicopters were in the air again and flying towards the coastal villages between Tunytlino and Lavrentiya. Their orders were to land at the villages and search them. By six thirty all were reporting thick fog over the coastal area. T h e y could see nothing on the ground, and nothing of each other. T h e y asked permission to return. " N o ! " the general told the airfield. " T h e y are to land at those villages."

By six forty-five a helicopter had found Tunytlino. It reported that the villagers had heard a vehicle passing in the night, soon after two a.m. It had passed in the direction of Veyemik. T h e general found the village on his map. " F r o m there he has a clear run to the islands. But not with a snow tank — too soon detected. He's on skis! But on skis he couldn't have made it yet. A n d in the fog . . . I think he's still there."

Kolymsky Heights

At six fifty-five Veyemik called with very good news. A stranger had come in the night to Veyemik. He had been in fear of his life and they had taken him in. W h e r e was he now? W i t h the men at the fishing station. It took some minutes for the general to understand that the fishing station was fifty kilometres out to sea. T h a t it was only ten kilometres from the first island. A n d that the party would not yet have reached it. T h e y had left twenty-five minutes ago. Twenty-five minutes! " G o out n o w ! " the general said. " G o immediately, don't delay!" Go where? H o w could they find the fishing station? T h e Eskimos found their way there by a signal controlled from the island. "I'll contact the island. Y o u go after him in the helicopters. He's still in a car, on his way. Follow it; from fifty metres they'll see the car, even in a fog. If he tries to get away and go left or right he'll miss the island, and he'll be lost in the fog. T h e n we can pick him up later." F r o m the island, after a few minutes delay, he learned that the Eskimos' vehicles had already arrived at their fishing station. Yes, island aircraft could reach the station very soon. T h e fog was expected to last two to three hours. In that time the man could try to get to the American island. But first he had to find it; which he could only do from the Russian side. A n d there was another factor. T h e American island was four kilometres away, but the international line was only two kilometres. On skis it could be reached very quickly. T h e general agreed another plan. In one hour's time, if the man had not been taken, all forces would go to the other side of the island. T h e man must not be allowed to leave it. If he tried to get to the American side he was to be brought down, not killed. Urgent news arrived. T h e helicopters had reached the fishing station, and the man was there! Or he had been two or three minutes ago. He'd

Crossing the Line

gone out to look at the helicopters. On his skis. "Good G o d ! " the general said. T h e y were now only three or four minutes behind him! H o w far, in that time, could he have gone?"

In under an hour he could be over the international line. T h e r e were helicopters above and behind him. N o w he could see headlights through the fog, and he remembered what the Eskimos had said. T h e r e were vehicles on the island. T h e y were coming after him. He went flat on the ice immediately. A n d immediately he saw a line of them not more than a hundred metres ahead. Men with torches were jumping out of the vehicles and putting on skis. He prayed that they could not see him. He heard the sound of engines, and the movement of the skis, and held his breath. A n d they were past. He put on his skis and moved off, very fast. A n d at once he stopped. N o ! His tracks! T h e y ' d spot them! He turned and went back. In a minute he had caught up with them, and saw the line of torches and the headlights of the vehicles. T h e drivers would be staring ahead and would not notice a skier next to a vehicle. He came up behind a man, and pulled him back at once, one arm round his neck, a hand over his mouth. T h e neck he could have broken immediately, but the face was that of a Yakut boy, maybe eighteen. He caught the boy's heavy torch, and hit him with it. T h e boy fell to the ice and Porter pulled off his jacket. Putting his gun around his neck, he then skied off after the line of soldiers. In a couple of minutes he had reached it. As before the line was moving forward, torches pointing ahead. He got the boy's torch facing that way and then fired his gun. T h e torch nearest in the fog turned towards him. Porter began signalling with his torch, shouting. "He's there! Just turned. He's going back!" He fired again, saw his neighbour do the same and then turned and raced back. He had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes

Kolymsky Heights

while they sorted out the confusion. He came to the Y a k u t boy very quickly, still lying on the ice. He wrapped him in his coat. "I'm sorry," he told him.

In only a minute the island would be there in front of him. T h e r e would be men lined up, he had no doubt. A n d electronic detecting devices. T h e equipment would mainly face the other way, but would certainly cover the whole area around the island. Suddenly the fog all around him was lit up with a blinding searchlight. He skied crazily through it, waving his torch and shouting. "He's hiding beneath the snow! Where is Operations? We need a snow tank," he cried, throwing off his skis. Behind the light, men in white coats emerged, guns at their sides. Several military trucks were standing by. " T h e y ' v e sent me to get the snow tank. Here — I go to Operations myself." One of the men began talking into his radio. " C o m e on! Q u i c k ! We'll lose h i m ! " He began running up behind the men, and so confidently that they simply watched him. At the top of the hill he felt over the edge with a ski and found that it was quite a long way d o w n . He dropped to the ice and put on his new skis. He skied fast around the edge of the rock, and then out into the middle of the frozen sea. T h e other island was opposite — just four kilometres away, with the international line only half that distance. He was almost safe. Suddenly the air was full of the sound of helicopters. N o t only helicopters — vehicles coming from the left and from the right. But going where? Confused, he stopped.

T h e Greater Diomede Island has many small caves on its coast. Porter

Crossing the Line

hid in two of them while the fog lasted. In the first he hid what was in the body belt. (A half of it, for one disk was still on him when they found him.) T h e second cave was where he was brought down. He was in this last place some time after half past nine, looking for a place to bury the second disk. He knew that he had no chance of escaping now, and that he would be caught when the fog lifted. A jeep had arrived at this time and he heard the crew get out and search a cave. T h e man in charge had shouted. "Remember, he's to be taken alive. But put a few in his legs — he'll get away if you give him the chance." He wondered. He had his skis and his gun. A few minutes later he also had a clear view. T h e fog lifted and the other island stood immediately before him. It looked no distance at all, a huge rock covered in lights. Helicopters were going up and down on it, taking a look at the activity before them. On the ice men with torches moved alongside jeeps. Behind them was a long line of helicopters, now beginning to take off. T h e place he was in had a low roof and narrow entrance. F r o m the opening he observed something new happening. A helicopter had evidently lifted off above, and presently he saw it move along the coast, its searchlight examining every rock. As it came closer he hid himself behind the opening. T h e cave lit up. T h e searchlight looked in for half a minute, and moved on. A little later, he saw that two vehicles were following the helicopter on the ice. One of the cars was a jeep. T h e other seemed to be a firefighting vehicle. It had an iron ladder, and at each cave where the helicopter had searched the ladder was raised. Porter watched as, lit up by the searchlight, a man went up the ladder. At the top he threw something. There was an explosion, and, shortly after, smoke — tear gas. T h r o u g h the smoke at the opening Porter saw a covered face. He knocked the man out with his gun. He began coming down the

Kolymsky Heights

ladder, but was fired upon, and fell to the ground, his gun still in his hands. He managed to fire it, and saw the men standing around him take cover. T w o men came at him: he shot them both. T h e driver of the jeep was still in it; Porter now saw his legs emerging. He put two single shots near them and shouted, "Stay where you are! Get back in!" He dragged himself to the other door and pushed the gun in. He kept it on the man while he pulled himself inside. "Don't shoot me," the man said. He was very frightened. "Drive to the line!" Porter had the gun at the man's chin. " W e can't make it. They'll kill us!" "I'll kill y o u ! " He fired under the man's chin, and the w i n d o w exploded into a thousand pieces. T h e man was trembling very badly, but he started the car. "Give yourself up — they won't kill you. T h e y ' v e been ordered not to kill you. We'll never get to the line." T h i s seemed very likely. F r o m all around jeeps were rushing towards them — from the left, from the right. " G o faster!" "We're going as fast as we can." Maybe they were. Porter wasn't seeing too well. W h e n he looked ahead he couldn't see the man beside him. (This was because his left eye was still in the cave, blown out in the explosion.) T h e other jeeps were firing at the car: at the engine, at the wheels. Suddenly the driver lost control. "We're hit, they've got us — give it up n o w ! " " K e e p g o i n g ! " His balance had gone; he couldn't tell which side was down. " W h e r e are we hit?" "Your side — we're all d o w n there. See it!" He took a look. " T u r n the wheel left," he said, and turned back and

Crossing the Line

saw the man was no longer in the car. His door was open and he had thrown himself out. Porter climbed into the driving seat and got behind the wheel. He was in great pain from his right leg, but he managed to get the other foot down. T h e car was slowly circling, in first gear. He straightened it out and began moving forward again.

He was two hundred and fifty metres from the line when the second explosion came. There was glass everywhere and he tasted blood in his mouth. He couldn't see anything. Still the car moved forward, very slowly, a wounded insect refusing to die. T h e US aircraft watching from above stated that it took him eight minutes to cross the line and that he stopped when he was told to. Voices shouted at him, in English, to open the door and step out with his arms raised. He opened the door, and fell out onto the ice.

A helicopter took him one hundred and twenty miles down the Alaskan coast to N o m e . He was fully conscious, and urgently demanding a tape recorder. T h e radio room made this available to him, together with a throat microphone so that he did not have to shout above the noise of the engine. F r o m N o m e , where the medical facilities were judged to be inadequate, he was flown another six hundred miles south to Anchorage. Here, in the early afternoon of 25th December, he was admitted to Providence Hospital. At Porter's insistence, his belt, containing a silver computer disk, was locked in the hospital safe. T h e next day the hospital announced that he had died from his injuries.

The Circle Has No End

Medical Officer Komarova had had enough of the Kolymsky region. F r o m the C h i e f of Militia she had heard that the foreign spy was believed to be dead. T h r o u g h the winter she had watched her mother dying. A n d from the Evenks she k n e w that Tcherny Vodi's Director had also died; her beloved Misha-Bisha. Soon only unhappy memories would remain in the place: she wanted to move to another. In June she flew west to St Petersburg for an interview for a new job. She had trained in the city and k n e w the area well. A n d the job had many attractions, chief among them distance — six thousand kilometres of distance — from the Kolymsky region. A room had been booked for her, and in it she took out her ring. She hadn't worn it in Tchersky, and now she examined it again. " A s our love the circle has no end .. ." In the morning she had time before her interview, and she went into a bookshop. She found herself in the foreign section; and suddenly, almost fainting, she saw his face on the back of a book. She picked it up. J.-B. Porter. The Inuit: Life and Belief Systems. T h e book, she read, was the most recent w o r k by Dr Porter, the expert on native Indian culture. And on the first page were the words: "To M I S H A - B I S H A and T A N Y A PANYA."

Three months later she left the Kolymsky region for her new job in Karelskaya. T h e move was noted by all the medical authorities, and also by the C I A . One day she returned from a trip and looked briefly through the mail on her desk. One envelope was not opened, and she paused over it. T h e address was handwritten and the word "Private" was written in the

The Circle Has No End

corner of the envelope. She opened the envelope, and found an undated air ticket in her name, an open ticket to Montreal without any note or explanation. She opened the envelope wider, and at the bottom saw a tiny piece of cigarette paper. A single line of Russian was on it: " A s our love the circle has no end."