Chapter Sixteen.

Monday, August 1st, was a raw, grey morning as the train crawled onto the wooden bridge spanning the blue Irkut river; broad, sullen, and strong, that swept out into the Angara; and onwards to the mighty Yenisei; emptying thousands of miles away within the Arctic circle. The whistling and shrieking of engines drifted through the thin, morning air as the locomotive engineer waited on the bridge for the signal to proceed. Across the Angara, over the low-hanging river-mist, the dome of a Cathedral rose into the thin, morning air, and great buildings loomed along the east bank. Slowly, the Trans-Siberian Express eased forwards, trundling over a road crossing, with a mass of carts and people waiting until the train had passed. The coach axles creaked through a sprawling goods yard, and, after much rattling over the tangle of points, the express finally drew to a halt. The journey had taken five days, and covered five-thousand, one-hundred and eighty-five kilometres.

Irkutsk Station was a great, sprawling, white stone building; crouching alongside the west bank of the Angara. Coach doors banged open as Porters boarded the train and vied with one another to carry baggage. The corridors of the coaches were blocked with milling passengers, all trying to be first off the train; and there was much swearing, shoving, and indignation. Anton and Sacha shouldered out of the compartment into the turmoil wearing their GUGB uniforms. As if, by magic; the bustle subsided, and the irate passengers drew back from the sight of the ominous uniforms.

Karyn moved to the forward coach to collect Jereni Cherevin... the young Provodnitsa who had discovered the bodies of Tasha Chernikova and Donya Jelavich, while Anton snapped his fingers at the nearest porter, and gestured to their luggage. Two porters dropped the luggage they had gained in the struggle, and shouldered their way to where the two GUGB Praporshchiki waited. The forsaken previous patrons of the porters didn't even dare to throw them a dirty look... let alone, complain. Such was the measure of fear that the red banded, blue-topped, NKVD Furashky imparted to the average Soviet citizen.

Karyn came back down the corridor with Jereni Cherevin, and, with the porters pushing their way past the other passengers; the party left the coach, and stepped out into the cold Siberian morning. The platform was thronged with the usual vendors and passengers waiting to board the express. The porters led the party through the vast central hallway of the station, and out to what they solemnly called the station square... a great patch of bare, muddy earth in front of the station, where a line of Drozhki... light, one-horse, four-wheeled Russian coaches, waited. The station was surrounded by a wilderness of mud.

The Drozhki drivers began running across the wide, muddy square towards these potential patrons. They had accomplished perhaps, twenty metres, when, around the far corner of the timber log fence that separated the wagon yard from the square, two black cars appeared. They were the same strange looking, four-wheel-drive vehicles perching on large, military-treaded tyres; with a very high ground clearance... which made them look like ordinary GAZ saloons on tip-toes. They slid to a halt, and two NKVD Sergant Gozbezopasnosti... Sergeants of State Security jumped out and saluted Anton and Sacha. The larger of the two spoke to Anton:

'The train is early, Comrade Praporshchik. The boat hasn't arrived yet. We are to take you to headquarters, and entertain you in the mess for a while.'

Anton nodded;

'Good; we could use a decent breakfast, Comrade. We have an extra guest. I'm hoping that there is an aerodrome somewhere close by. Comrade Cherevin needs a flight back to Moscow. I shall arrange it at headquarters.'

The Sergeant glanced at Jereni Cherevin. She wore civilian clothes, as did the other female. Undercover GUGB? He chose not to press the issue; saying,

'The Irkutsk Aviation Plant is eleven kilometres downriver, Comrade Praporshchik. There will be a suitable flight to be had, there.'

The luggage was piled into the cars' boots as Anton and Sacha climbed into the first one, and Karyn and Jereni Cherevin were helped into the second by the younger of the two sergeants. With the usual GAZ clattering engines and crunching of gears, the two cars lurched and squelched their way out of the station square; turning north onto the rutted, muddy track that served as the main road down to the newly completed bridge across the Angara. As recently as three years ago, there had been only a pontoon bridge here. As the cars crossed the bridge, it could be seen that Irkutsk was protected on the river side by the most spectacular wall of logs... a huge swathe of horizontal timber rising along the river bank, stretching into the distance, and fading into the river mist.

Irkutsk was a white and green city. Most of the buildings were stucco-faced, and whitewashed; with sheet-iron roofs, painted green. The streets were little more than tracks, which, depending on the season; would be either all dust or all mud. The pavement was a raised side-walk of boards, many of which were missing. Yet, in the midst of all of this, there were grand buildings. There were houses, which, from outward appearance, rivalled some as might be found in any major city... Moscow, or St Petersburg; perhaps, even Berlin or Paris. This outward grandeur of some of these building was though, usually completely spoiled by having some rough wooden shanty as its immediate neighbour.

All in all, Irkutsk resembled a city built to order... the same stone walls of stucco, the same marble pillars; the wide streets and endless avenues, still unpaved and insistently suggestive of the wilderness of which they recently formed a part. As the two GAZ saloons ground and squelched down the main avenue called Bolshoiskaia; Karyn wondered; if this was the City that they called the Paris of Siberia... what in hell would await them when they began to move out into the Taiga?

Irkutsk NKVD headquarters was located in an ugly, modern four-storey Stalinist building situated about two-thirds of the way down Bolshoiskaia on the eastern side, opposite the Blagoveshchenskaya church. The two GAZ saloons slithered to a halt outside; the two sergeants jumped out into the mud and opened the nearside doors for their eminent guests to alight onto the rickety boards of the planked sidewalk. Entering the building; the interior was as ugly as the exterior; concrete floored, with the walls decorated in a bilious shade of pale green. The Duty clerk glanced up; saw the ominous red-banded, blue-topped Furashky; and snapped rigidly to attention... managing to spill his inkpot all over his register. As the ink dribbled across the page, successfully obliterating many of the names neatly logged for "further investigation"; the clerk didn't even flicker. It didn't really matter that a few would escape. There were always plenty more out there who would be denounced for one thing, or another.

The Sergeant, who had driven Anton and Sacha, glanced at the hapless clerk; sadly shook his head, and led his guests away to the mess. After a typical Siberian breakfast of an egg omelette, sandwiches; buckwheat Kasha... porridge; and several glasses of tea; Anton went to phone the Irkutsk Aviation Plant to arrange passage for Jereni Cherevin. While he was making the call, word came in that the boat had finally arrived at the Predmest'ye Sverdlova shipyard across the river. In a while, he came back into the mess and informed them of this. He also told Jereni Cherevin that he'd arranged a flight to Sverdlovsk for her. From there, another aircraft would take her on to Moscow. He smiled;

'Don't worry. I've been on to the Sverdlovsk office as well. You will be met at Koltsovo airfield by Kapitan Gozbezopasnosti... Captain of State Security Giorgy Lipinskii. He's a good friend of mine, and, as head of Sverdlovsk GUGB; will ensure you are kept safe. He will arrange your flight on to Moscow, and arrange for you to be met there.'

Turning to the others, he said,

'OK; let's move. We don't want to keep our Navy friends waiting.'

The ride to the shipyard took a little over ten minutes. As they came across the bridge and turned right, onto the Predmest'ye Sverdlova peninsula; the GAZ saloons rattled and lurched over several railway tracks; the crossing points being merely planks laid between the rails. Vast warehouses loomed to their left as they progressed the last half-kilometre to the shipyard... which was little more than a natural basin and a couple of scruffy jetties. At a mooring nearest to the mouth of the Irkut River, a streamlined silver craft was being re-fuelled from a pair of two-hundred-litre fuel drums. As the two GAZ saloons approached; a young naval officer wearing a roll-neck sweater, and a reefer jacket without rank insignia, looked up.

Leaving the re-fuelling, he walked along the jetty and waited, as the first GAZ creaked to a standstill beside him. Anton jumped out of the saloon and faced him. The young officer merely smiled, and held out his hand... no leaping to attention and saluting; no flit of fear at the sight of the GUGB uniforms. His open, honest face still held the pleasant smile. Glancing over Anton's shoulder at Sacha and the two girls, he cheerfully said,

'I am Starshiy Inzhener-Lejtenant... Senior Lieutenant-technician Vadim Dolinski; in charge of this old tub. Welcome, Comrades Praporshchiki; welcome Ladies. Four for the Skylark then?'

Anton grinned.

'Thank God! At last! Someone in the Military who doesn't piss their panties at the sight of these bloody Furashky!'

Vadim laughed;

'No fear of that, here; Comrade. In fact, we seriously thought about having to muzzle our senior mechanic when you boarded...'

He was interrupted by a stream of profanities echoing up from the open engine room hatch, accompanied by assorted clangs and bangs.

Anton raised an eyebrow.

'That's him, I take it?'

Vadim grinned.

'It certainly is. That's Starshiy Krasnoflotets... Senior Mechanic Laurente Gura; the best damned chiefy in the fleet. He's just changing the drive couplings. We had a few problems on the way up here.'

He walked to the edge of the jetty and yelled down into the engine room;

'Laurente, stop pissing about, and get your arse into gear. Our passengers are waiting.'

A voice came echoing back.

'Well, tell them to fucking well wait while I finish fitting this last coupling; unless they fancy paddling this piece of Leningrad shit all the way down to Bratskoi.'

Vadim turned, and shrugged.

'See what I mean, comrade?'

Anton and Sacha grinned. Karyn affected a disdainful gaze, and Jereni Cherevin looked genuinely shocked. Vassili Levkova; Vadim's gunner/navigator, continued pumping petrol; his shoulders shaking with laughter. This had all the makings of being a fun trip. Anton cast his gaze over the nineteen-metre long, streamlined cutter moored alongside. He turned to Vadim.

'Enough room for all of us? Although; we are going to drop Comrade Cherevin off downstream at the Irkutsk Aviation Plant for her to catch a flight west.'

Vadim grinned.

'No problem at all. There are only three of us crewing her. We dropped our torpedist, Burian Komarovski, off at Bratskoi, along with the Tin-Fish, to extend our range. We'll pick him up on our way back, provided he hasn't met "Death by Blyadini"... "sluts." He's had a couple of days in the Bratskoi knocking shops now! This old girl normally has a crew of seven, so eight won't be too bad. Besides which, we are going to tank up at the Aviation Plant, anyway.'

As Vadim helped Karyn and Jereni down onto the shiny, Duralumin alloy decking, Laurente stuck his head out of the engine room hatch.

'OK Vadim; the "Hardy Spicers" are fitted. You can fire the old bitch up now; and if these little fuckers break...'

Then he caught sight of the two girls, and the two GUGB uniforms. He blushed crimson and quickly disappeared back down into the engine room. Vadim burst into laughter.

'You know; I think that's the first time he's blushed since he was a kid!'

Having arranged his passengers in the spare crew positions, Vadim proceeded to go through the start-up procedure. Vassili had completed the fuelling, and stood on the jetty ready to cast off. Vadim primed the fuel system and pressed the engine start buttons. The two V12 aero engines whined, coughed, belched blue smoke, and rumbled into life. He carefully balanced the throttle levers until both rev counter needles were synchronised; than waved his hand out of the port window of the pilot house; signalling Vassili to cast off aft. This done; Vassili jumped aboard; ran forward, and cast off the bow mooring line. Vadim pushed both gear selector levers into the "Astern" position. Easing the throttles forward; he increased the revs, and spun the steering wheel to a quarter-port rudder. TK12 began to move away from the jetty, with Vassili pushing her bow off with a docking pole.

With the bow some three metres clear of the jetty; Vadim centred the rudders and eased TK12 out into mid-channel, spinning the wheel to starboard to point her bows down the Angara. When she was lined up mid-channel; he pushed the gear levers through "Neutral" into "Ahead," and began to open the throttles. The mud swirled and boiled around the stern as the propellers bit into the water, and TK12 began to make headway past the easterly spit of the tadpole-shaped Ostrov Lyudvi. Vadim steered towards the eastern bank. He wanted to give the hulk that lay almost mid-channel in the Angara River, just off the southern tip of the island, a wide berth.

Once clear; he pushed the throttle levers forward, and, with a rasping crackle from her exhausts; TK12 began to lift her bows as she gathered speed. The bend in the river was beginning to straighten, and the settlement of Zhilkinskoye was coming up on the port bank. Now he could open her up to about twenty knots for the eleven kilometres run downriver to the settlement of Bokova which was about a kilometre from the Irkutsk Aviation Plant. Hopefully, there would be a petrol tanker waiting there for them in accordance with Anton's request.

The trip down the Angara took a little over twenty minutes at the speed TK12 was making. As they cleared the east bend in the river; passing the land-locked island of Ostrova Fereferova on their port side; the river straightened, and the first buildings of the little settlement of Bokova came into view. Off to the port side of the boat, and about half a kilometre ahead, Vadim observed a low, wooden landing stage, and a figure waving a red flag to attract his attention.

Easing back the throttle levers, he called for Vassili to go forward to the bow and prepare to drop the old tyres that served as fenders over the port gunwale. He didn't much fancy scraping the port topsides along the rough plank edges of the landing stage; and TK12 wasn't fitted with any sort of rubbing strakes to protect her streamlined duralumin alloy hull. With the old tyres over the side; Vadim brought the cutter alongside the landing stage; easing the gear levers back through "Neutral" into "Astern"... to counteract the forward momentum of the hull and the tow of the river. Vassili threw a mooring line to the man with the flag, and ran back to the stern to secure the mooring rope.

With the mooring ropes firmly made fast around the thick, tree-trunk sections driven into the landing stage, which served as mooring bollards; Vadim cut the engines and clambered out of the pilot house onto the landing stage. The man with the flag introduced himself.

'Good day, Comrade. You must be Senior Lieutenant-technician Dolinski. I am Vladik Roschin; Overseer of the fuselage shop. We have been expecting you. There is a refuelling truck on its way with your petrol. We have arranged for your passenger to be flown to Koltsovo airfield in Sverdlovsk. There is an aircraft waiting as we speak. You were lucky. We only build I-14 single-seat fighters and SB High-speed bombers here; and the SB would not have anything like the range. Your passenger's aircraft is a Tupolev TB-7 four-engined, heavy bomber. It normally has a crew of eleven; but when it flew here for modifications, it only had the two pilots; the navigator, and the flight engineer on board; so there will be plenty of room.'

Vadim nodded, and turned, as Anton and Jereni Cherevin stepped onto the landing stage. Overseer Roschin paled as he caught sight of Anton's blue-topped Furashka. He quickly composed himself, as Anton spoke.

'Good day, Comrade. This is Comrade Cherevin who requires the flight to Moscow. You have some form of transport available? We can't expect the lady to wade across these marshes, can we?'

Roschin flustered;

'Certainly not; Comrade Praporshchik. I have my car waiting.'

He motioned to an ancient Russo-Balt car... open sided; with a high canvas hood, and wooden wheels with what appeared to be solid tyres. It must have been at least twenty years old. He proudly led them across to this relic from the early part of the century and settled them into the rear seat. He then set the hand throttle on the steering wheel and walked around to the front of the vehicle to swing the starting handle. Anton glanced at Jereni Cherevin with a bemused grin. She said nothing.

Roschin swung the starting handle, and the engine burst into life; almost blotting out the view to the rear with a cloud of fragrant blue castor oil smoke. He clambered back into the driving seat and crashed in the gears. As the ancient car lurched away, the refuelling truck from the aviation plant appeared on the track at the brow of the slight rise that led up from the river. Roschin thrust the accelerator pedal down to the floorboards and sent the ancient relic of a motorcar bouncing, jarring, and lurching up the rough track in a cloud of dust.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The driver of the refueller suddenly realised that the car was not going to stop, and swung the truck off the track. As the car; with Anton and Jereni Cherevin holding on to the wooden struts of the canvas roof for dear life, jolted past; the driver shoved his head out of the cab window; shook his fist, and yelled,

"Mudak!"... Asshole!

Understandable; with two-thousand-litres of hundred-octane aviation fuel in the tank behind his wooden driving cab; but Roschin didn't even blink, as the car bounced up over the brow of the rise.

The sprawling aviation plant came into view, about half a kilometre ahead. Waiting on the concrete apron just to the river side of the single runway was a huge, four-engined aeroplane... or at least, it looked huge against the row of stubby little Tupolev ANT-31 fighters that Roschin had referred to as the I-14s; lined up outside the assembly building. A young airman was waiting by the entry door on the starboard side of the fuselage, just aft of the wing's trailing edge.

Roschin brought the car to a shuddering halt, enveloped in one more cloud of blue castor-oil smoke; jumped out, and opened the rear door for his passengers. Anton and Jereni Cherevin alighted; their eyes stinging from the smoke haze, and were introduced to the young airman by Roschin. "Kapitan Aviatsii"... Captain of Aviation, Alexei Pletner saluted the pair and held his hand out to Jereni Cherevin, to help her onto the boarding steps as she entered the fuselage, Pletner said she could sit in the reserve navigator's seat, below, and to the starboard side of the tandem flight deck. There; she would be directly below, and to the side of his seat; and she would also have a window that she could look out of.

As Anton watched; the door of the fuselage was closed, and a strange-looking truck trundled up to the front of the bomber. This was an AS-2 Starter Truck. Most Soviet aeroplanes were equipped with what was known as a "Hucks" hub on the prop, to which was attached a starter dog from a suitably equipped truck. This meant that the extra weight of a starter and battery was not needed in the aircraft. The Hucks system... named after the English Royal Flying Corps Captain Bentfield Hucks who devised it; was a mechanical replacement for a member of the ground crew who would have swung an aircraft's propellers by hand. With the big TB-7, this would have been impossible due to the compression force of the engines, and their height from the ground.

The power to turn over the engines was transmitted to the aircraft via an overhead power take-off shaft. The shaft of the starter fitted into a special protruding hub incorporating a simple projecting claw clutch on the centre of the aeroplane's propeller assembly. When engaged, the power of the truck's engine was transmitted to the aircraft engine until start up, whereupon the faster speed of the now-running engine disengaged the clutch, and the starter truck cleared the area prior to the aircraft taxiing. The driver of the truck carefully eased his vehicle towards the aeroplane; the power shaft of the truck was attached to the inner starboard engine, and the co-pilot gave a thumbs-up sign to the driver of the starter truck.

The truck driver grated some special gear into engagement, and revved up his engine. The power take-off shaft began to turn the propeller... faster and faster; until with several loud detonations and clouds of blue smoke; the engine caught, and fired up lumpily. The starter truck reversed away, and moved around to the inner port engine. Anton saw Pletner appear in the Perspex "greenhouse" canopy and settle himself into his pilot's seat. He gave a thumbs-up to the truck driver and the start-up sequence was repeated. Jereni Cherevin's face appeared in the window below the flight deck. She gave Anton a little, nervous smile. She had mentioned to him that she had never flown before; and all this complicated engine procedure must be unnerving the girl.

At last; all four engines were running. Pletner glanced out of the cockpit; raised his hand in farewell to Anton, and released the brakes. The big bomber began to move. Anton waved to Jereni Cherevin; whose wide-eyed, pale, face told that she was really nervous. Whether it was from the apprehension of the flight, or the unknown situation she would meet in Moscow, could not be guessed. She raised a timid hand in reply, and then, the bomber had turned out towards the runway, and she was lost from sight. He watched as Pletner revved up the engines to full power, and released the brakes. The big bomber accelerated down the runway in a crescendo of noise. The tail came up, and she lifted off halfway down the strip of concrete. The wheels came up as she climbed away into the north, then turned gently into the north-west; the crackling roar of her engine exhausts slowly diminishing to a deep drone as Pletner eased the throttles back into climb revs. Anton turned to Roschin.

'OK; let's get back to see how they're getting on with the refuelling.' They clambered back into the car, and, in another cloud of castor-oil smoke; headed back towards the river.

At a little after 14.00 hours on the afternoon of Monday, August 1st. 1938; the new guard commander of Kraslag Kansk, P.O. Box 235 [17] was standing in the north-easterly watchtower of the compound, idly gazing out across the forests, when he saw a large, four-engined aeroplane coming from the direction of the south-east; very low, with its engines making a strange, almost straining sound. As he watched; suddenly, the engine noise stopped and the aeroplane literally fell out of the sky. A tremendous, distant explosion echoed through the trees; and a great column of black smoke rolled up into the heavens. Sergeant Fredek Dvorkin; who had only replaced the executed Marchuk twenty days previously; rushed to the Commandant's office to report what he had seen. Commandant Stanislav Lifshen listened; then said;

'Get the car out, Dvorkin; I suppose we'd better go to see what has happened.'

As they drove the camp's ancient GAZ up the rough track to the road that led to the little settlement of Verkh Ammonash, Dvorkin said that he thought the aeroplane had come down about three kilometres north of the camp. As it was, it would not be difficult to locate... the column of smoke was still boiling up into the sky. As they came out of the trees and turned left onto the road... there! About a kilometre ahead, the burning wreckage of the aeroplane lay in a field off to the right-hand side of the road. From here, it seemed that it had simply nose-dived straight into the ground. It lay, like a broken child's toy; the fuselage, tail, and starboard wing pointing accusingly up towards the sky. All around, was a sea of burning fuel from the shattered port wing fuel tanks. Surely to God, no one could have survived that. Lifshen and Dvorkin jumped from the car and stood at the edge of the field helplessly, as the flames engulfed the wreckage. Then, they saw her.

She lay, still strapped into her seat, some thirty metres from the edge of the sea of fire which was advancing rapidly towards her as the starboard tanks ruptured in the heat and spilled their contents to feed the flames. She must have been hurled out through the shattered nose of the bomber as it impacted.

Dvorkin was already half-way across the field towards her. Lifshen ran after him. They grabbed the battered seat and dragged it clear of the oncoming flames, out towards the road. At a safe distance, they gently lay the seat down and looked at the girl. Once; she had been very beautiful; but now... her blue eyes were glazing; her pale, blonde hair was matted with blood from a dreadful hole in the side of her head... presumably torn open by the crumpling metal as the nose of the aeroplane collapsed around her. A mangled and sharded fuselage longeron had driven into her pelvis; and both her slender, once-shapely legs were shattered. The girl was dying.

Her lips moved. Lifshen bent to hear what she was saying. He made out only one word... "Karyn." He gently shook the girl.

'Is that your name?'

She painfully shook her head... 'Karyn... tell Karyn...'

Lifshen went cold. The name burned into his brain. He knew that name. That German bitch that had him sent here had that same name. He gently shook her again.

'Who is Karyn?'

The girl coughed blood. She hadn't long to live. Her eyes were fading. She whispered,

'GUGB.'

Lifshen shook her harder.

'Where is Karyn now? Where did you come from?'

The girl coughed more blood. Lifshen heard her death rattle begin to rise in her throat. She breathed two last words;

'Bokova Aerodrome.'

Lifshen gently took his hands away from the girl's shoulders. Dvorkin was almost in tears. Lifshen stood up.

'Pull yourself together, Sergeant. Now; where is Bokova?'

His voice was hard-edged. Dvorkin looked at the girl, then back to Lifshen.

'About ten kilometres downriver from Irkutsk, Comrade Commandant. The Irkutsk Aviation Plant is situated there. That's where this aeroplane must have come from. But, what do we do about her? We can't just leave her here.'

Lifshen looked at him. Dvorkin was young; perhaps, a little too young, and too soft to be a guard in the Kraslag. But he was right; they couldn't leave her here for the crows to pick at her. Lifshen nodded; reached down, and carefully unfastened her seat harness. Very carefully, he pulled the shard of torn aluminium longeron from her belly and threw it aside. He picked her up in his arms, and carried her back to the car, where he gently laid her on the rear seat.

Fredek Dvorkin quietly watched his Commandant. He had been told that this Minsk NKVD officer was a cold, hard bastard; but seeing how gently he carried the dead girl to the car, and laid her on the rear seat; almost as though he was a father carrying his sleeping daughter; Dvorkin now wasn't quite so sure that what the other guards had said was the whole truth.

The drive back to the Kraslag was made in silence. The girl was taken to one of the women's barracks and put into the charge of an old Babushka to be cleaned up, and laid out decently. Then, she would be buried properly with full Military Honours. Although she was in civilian clothes, and her identity papers named her as Jereni Cherevin, but gave no rank or Directorate; she must have been in the Military... otherwise, why would she have been on board a Red Army Air Force bomber?

That evening, at sunset; Jereni Cherevin; Moscow-born, former Bolshoi Academy student ballerina, and Trans-Siberian Railways Provodnitsa, was laid to rest in a little copse just outside the perimeter fence of Kraslag Kansk. P.O. Box 235 [17.]

One of the Zeki... Protodeacon Nikolai; incarcerated for six years in various camps; and now, at Kansk, since his arrest in Voroshilovgrad under the Stalinist anti-religious campaign; held a rudimentary Orthodox burial service. The old Babushka had discovered that the girl was wearing a small Gold-and-blue enamel St. Olga Orthodox Cross, and informed Lifshen, who decided to give her a proper Orthodox burial, even though this simple act could quite easily have put him in front of a firing squad.

Protodeacon Nikolai carried out the service to the best of his abilities, wearing an old blanket around his shoulders in place of a stole. Only the spoken words of the service could be used, as there were no psalm or hymnbooks in the camp.

Her mourners were Lifshen and Dvorkin; ten hand-picked Zeki, and a five-man Guard of Honour assembled from the camp guards, who fired three rifle volleys into the fading evening light as she was gently lowered into the cold, Siberian earth in her rough, pine coffin which had been fashioned with infinite care from some old, discarded planks by the Zeki in the Kraslag carpentry hut.

She was just nineteen years old.

Back in his office, Lifshen sat with Fredek Dvorkin, silently drinking vodka. Although he would never admit it, the experience of having the girl die in his arms had affected Lifshen far more than he ever thought the death of a human being could. He was NKVD, for Christ's sake! Death was their stock-in-trade. The truth was that Lifshen had never actually killed anyone, except Marchuk; the former Guard Commander of the Kraslag. He was, basically, just a policeman. He had always been a member of The People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs; and thus, had never been involved in the countless atrocities and tortures for which the NKVD and their predecessors were notorious. His function had been to scare the shit out of people, and then, run them in to headquarters.

He supposed it wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't been quite so beautiful... which was still very evident, even though she was so badly injured. He took another long swig of vodka and wondered about this "Karyn." His first thought, upon hearing the dying girl whisper her name; had been to track her down, and put a bullet into the back of her head for condemning him to this shit-hole; but then he shrugged. Maybe he really had pushed it a little too far, that day at the Academy at Minsk. If she had decided to turn nasty, he might well have ended up among the pine trees in Brod woods. No matter; he would be failing in his duty if he neglected to check her out. He decided that he would order a flight from Kansk aerodrome, to Irkutsk in the morning.

At Bokova, the refuelling of cutter TK12 was nearing completion. The fuel tanks were almost full, and Vassili had taken on board two, two-hundred-litre fuel drums as replacements for the ones they had used at Irkutsk. There was now more than enough fuel to get them down to Bratskoi. Anton signed the fuel chit that Overseer Roschin had proffered, and bid him farewell. Vadim fired up the engines, and, with Vassili pushing the bow out from the landing stage with the docking pole; eased open the throttles, and guided TK12 out into mid-channel. As she made headway, he opened the throttles progressively until she was making twenty knots indicated. That was quite fast enough for this sinuous, island-dotted, section of the river.

Once past the two big islands of Ostrov Berezovyy and Ostrov Listvennichnyy; some twenty kilometres down-river of their present position, he could increase the speed to twenty-five knots until he reached Ostrov Kompaneyskiy... the last big island for a while. The Angara ran almost due north from this point. From here, they could really increase their speed down past the islands of Ostrov Bol'shoy and Ostrov Krasnyy, until they came to the west bend in the river.

Vadim glanced over his shoulder. His passengers seemed happy enough. The two GUGB men were chatting amiably to Vassili... just ordinary conversation; nothing questionable. They weren't at all like the NKVD that he had encountered in the past... all probing questions and suspicious attention. The girl was very beautiful. She reminded him of Anastasija Yurkova; a gorgeous, Belarusian administrator at his base at Yeniseisk. She was everyone's sweetheart, and they had all tried, unsuccessfully, to bed her at one time or another.

This girl had much the same appearance as Anastasija; big, blue eyes, and pale, blonde hair... cut in much the same style; but, whereas Anastasija was a gloriously statuesque, typical Belarusian... who would probably leave you completely wrung-out, and needing traction for at least a fortnight if you were ever fortunate enough to share a boisterous session of "Trajat'sya"… bed warming, with her; this girl was lithe, and delicately boned... but would probably leave you in the much the same state. He allowed himself a rueful grin; yes, she was definitely a "Klassnaya Devchonka"... a first-class girl.

He turned his attention back to the river. Ostrov Krasnyy was coming into view, with Ostrov Bol'shoy behind it. He needed to keep them both to port. The next navigation point would be the settlement of Buret, off the port side, around the next westerly bend in the river. Once past here; the river ran almost due north once again. The last big island on this stretch of the Angara was Ostrov Barkhatavskiy. Once beyond the island; he could increase the revs to planing speed.

As TK12 cleared the northern tip of Ostrov Barkhatavskiy, Vadim eased the throttles forward. The cutter's stern settled deeper into the water as the revs increased, until the knot meter was indicating thirty-five knots, and she'd risen up onto her planing-hull step. The familiar crackle of the exhausts rolled back and forth across the water; sending great flights of Cranes, disturbed from their settling places along the eastern bank; aloft in great white clouds.

The small settlements flashed past; Ust'-Kotikha, Grisheva Svirskoye; Verkhneye Ostrozhnoye. A few startled farmers and the odd cow watched their progress as TK12 cut a wide, white swathe down the sapphire waters of the Angara. Soon, the next two islands would be coming into sight. Firstly, it would be Ostrov Konny, with the larger island of Ostrov Maraktuy behind it. Their course would be down the western side of both islands; and Vadim could keep the cutter's speed up. Once clear; there were no more islands almost all the way down to Bratskoi, and TK12 could really be opened up.

The jagged, rattling sound of an air-cooled, five-cylinder, radial engine caused the two workmen pushing a brand-new I-14 Fighter out of the assembly sheds of the Irkutsk Aviation Plant onto the broad concrete apron at the southern end of the main runway; to glance up into the skies to the north. A Polikarpov U-2 biplane was turning in on final approach. It ghosted in; almost hovering, as the pilot brought it down against the ten-knot headwind as Overseer Roschin came out to see what was making such a noise. The U-2 accomplished the runway with hardly a bounce, and turned in onto the apron. The pilot switched off the engine as the biplane rolled to a halt.

As the two-bladed, fixed pitch, wooden propeller jerked to a standstill; Roschin began walking towards the biplane. The figure in the front cockpit clambered out; pulled off his flying helmet, and put on a red-banded, blue-topped "Furashka"... visor cap. Roschin stopped dead in his tracks, the blood draining from his face. NKVD! He felt the icy fingers of fear begin to crawl up his spine. This svoloch must be here to investigate the loss of the TB-7 four-engined, heavy bomber they had modified here, only two days earlier. The telephone call had only come in this morning. The bomber had crashed somewhere near Kansk. Roschin shivered. He was convinced he knew why the bomber had crashed.

They had replaced the fifth engine mounted in the fuselage, which fed air to the four propulsion engines mounted on the wings. Roschin had chivvied and harassed his workers to complete the replacement in the shortest possible time in order to make the fuselage shop work quotient appear impressively efficient. Through this efficiency, Roschin hoped he might eventually be awarded the "Orden Trudovogo Krasnogo Znameni"... The Order of The Red Banner of Labour; for his outstanding contribution to The Motherland. One of the workers had complained that he had not been allowed enough time to check that the fuel system, which fed all the engines, had been properly bled to remove air trapped when the supply to the fifth engine had been re-connected. This could have easily caused an air lock which would have starved the engines of fuel. He was abruptly told by Roschin to piss off and finish his work.

Roschin was Overseer of the fuselage shop; and, as such; would be held responsible. In the eyes of the NKVD, this would, almost certainly be viewed as "wrecking." He would be very fortunate not to be shot on the spot. He stood; rooted to the concrete as the NKVD officer approached; looked him up and down, and spoke.

'Good morning, Tovarishch. I am Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti Lifshen. I understand that the bomber that crashed near my establishment at Kansk came from here.'

His tone was disquisitive, but pleasant.

Roschin knew that his legs would give way at any moment; but he forced himself to reply in an earnest and concerned manner.

'Yes, comrade Lejtenant. We've just heard, and are checking records to see if we can throw some light on this terrible tragedy.'

Lifshen nodded;

'That's good. The Irkutsk office will be here shortly to begin an investigation. My interest, however, is in the only survivor we found at the crash site... a girl. We found no identification papers, but presume she was with the Main Directorate of State Security. Before she died, she mentioned that her colleagues were here. Do you know where they are?'

Roschin gave a silent sigh. This svoloch wasn't after him at all. He nodded.

'Yes, comrade Lejtenant, they left, two days ago, on a navy torpedo cutter, down the Angara. I think they were heading for Bratskoi.'

Lifshen's face hardened.

'Who was on board?'

Roschin was suddenly frightened again.

'Apart from the navy crew; two GUGB Praporshchiki, and a blonde girl in civilian clothes; comrade Lejtenant.'

Lifshen looked at Roschin.

'Two days ago, you say? They must be almost at Bratskoi by now. Thank you, comrade. Your information has been most helpful.'

He turned towards the biplane... then stopped. Turning again, to Roschin; he said, in a curious voice,

'Any thoughts on why the bomber came down?'

Roschin almost fouled his trousers. His replied, falteringly;

'There could be any number of reasons, comrade Lejtenant. Our information is sparse, but it sounds very much like some sort of catastrophic engine failure. It could be caused by the fuel being contaminated with something... water maybe; or a fuel line rupture... even flying into a flock of birds. We won't know until we gather the wreckage and check everything.'

Lifshen nodded. He could almost smell the guilty fear that clung to Roschin like a cheap suit. He nodded;

'Well; the best of luck with your search.'

And turned towards the biplane; thinking, "You know very well, why it crashed; you little creep. The Irkutsk boys will soon slap the truth out of you."

Roschin stood motionless, on the concrete apron as Lifshen clambered aboard the U-2 biplane; strapped himself in, and replaced his service cap with the flying helmet. Roschin's bowels were churning as he was gripped with an overwhelmingly urgent need to make a dash to the lavatory. He dared not move, for fear that this NKVD svoloch would see his guilt-ridden discomfort, and realise that he knew a great deal more about the cause of the crash of the TB-7 heavy bomber than he had admitted.

Roschin waited; straining to clench his sphincter muscles, as the ground crew laboriously swung the biplane's propeller by hand. He was familiar with the fact that the five-cylinder, Shvetsov engines were notoriously temperamental to start if they were still hot. Why hadn't the fucking pilot left it ticking over? His need to dash to the lavatory was becoming desperate. On the fifth swing, the engine fired, and clattered lumpily into life. The ground crew hauled the chocks away as the engine settled into its normal rough idle; while the pilot began to go through his pre-flight checks. Roschin saw Lifshen watching him, and felt his rectal muscles begin to go into spasm from the strain of trying to avoid a nasty accident. What the hell was this fucking idiot pilot waiting for?

After what seemed like a lifetime, the pilot was satisfied. He pushed open the throttle; the jagged clatter of the engine deepened, and the biplane began to roll. As the pilot turned out towards the runway, Lifshen raised his arm, and gave a cheerful wave to Roschin. With infinite care; Roschin raised his hand in reply; feeling the imminent onset of the emergence of his fear begin to ooze past his cramping muscles. As the U-2 taxied away; he turned, and, with his hands tightly clutching his buttock cheeks together; made a scuttling dash for the assembly shop lavatories.

He didn't quite make it... much to the malicious delight of his workers.