Chapter Twenty-Three.

The journey down the Churgim and Chamba rivers was uneventful. On a couple of occasions they were followed for a while by a pack of wolves loping along the eastern bank of the Chamba, keeping pace with the swift-moving, clamorous passage of the Pauzok and scrutinising them with hostile icy-white, or pale yellow-eyed vigilance; until they tired of this diversion and disappeared into the tree line.

At a suitable low section of the riverbank, probably trodden down by creatures of the taiga as they came to the river to drink; Lifshen steered the Pauzok into the bank and closed the throttle to idle revs. Here, the mosquitoes were sporadic and they could have something to eat and drink without worrying about keeping their face veils down. Okhchen's hut was no more than four, or five kilometres further down the river, and he proposed to stop there for the night.

As she ate the fugal meal consisting of cracker biscuits, canned braised meat, and half a bar of "Zolotoy yarlyk"... "Gold Label" chocolate from the emergency ration pack; Karyn gazed around the river. How different it was from the desolate southern swamp. The lush green taiga crowded in to within eight, or ten metres from the river bank. The water was freezing cold, and so calm she could see the reflections of the trees and grass from the shore on the tranquil water as if she was gazing into a huge mirror. It really was wild and beautiful scenery. High wild grass mingled with cinquefoil growing in dense thickets along the river bank. The deep blue sky was beginning to fade and gather a rosy blush in the west as evening crept in.

Lifshen settled himself in the seat and twisted open the throttle. The Shvetsov engine popped and clattered, then picked up, and as the propeller blades became a blur; the Pauzok gathered speed and began carving a broad white wake in the unruffled surface of the Chamba as it headed on down towards Okhchen's hut.

Twenty minutes later; Lifshen eased the throttle grip back and the bellow of the engine subsided as the Pauzok slowed as the smoke of the settlement at Okhchen's hut began to haze across the river less than half a kilometre ahead. Above the clatter of the engine, they heard the distant howling of dogs... the Evenki settlement... and hot tea!

Lifshen brought the Pauzok in to the bank a little upriver from Okhchen's hut and tossed a rope to one of the Evenki herdsmen who had gathered on the bank at the sound of the approaching craft. Lifshen wound the throttle grip closed and flicked down the magneto switches. The engine grated to a stop and the propeller jerked to a standstill. One of the Evenki held out his hand to Karyn and pulled her onto the bank. As Lifshen clambered out of the Pauzok, a small Evenki approached. The gathering of herdsmen stepped back deferentially to let him approach.

This was Okhchen himself; Leonid Kulik's guide on the original expedition, and obviously a person of substance in the settlement. He was a small man, even for an Evenki; standing no more than one-and-a-half-metres tall, of interminable age, with a deeply-lined Mongolian face, broad and flat, with prominent cheek bones and deep-set small black eyes. He welcomed them in acceptable Russian and invited them into his hut.

He apologised to Lifshen and Karyn that he hadn't been there on their outward journey; but had been told of their expedition and hoped that they had been successful. But where were the other members of their party? Lifshen explained that the southern swamp had taken them. Okhchen nodded. That was the way of it. They must have committed some transgression against Agdy, and had paid the price. He said this with no hint of surprise or concern. It was simply the nature of this inhospitable land.

He invited them to stay in the settlement that night. Lifshen could have the spare room in his hut and Karyn could sleep in the "Malu"... the large Choum that was the honourable place for guests to the settlement. Now; they must join the settlement for the evening meal which would be eaten around the large communal fire. The settlement gathered, with Lifshen and Karyn in the principal places next to Okhchen. The herdsmen's women brought the food; cold roast duck; baked reindeer tongue, and "Chorny klep"... black rye bread; very similar to the German "Schwarzbrot" that Karyn was familiar with; spread with wild rose-petal jam.

Dessert was "Maróshka"... fat, yellow cloud berries with clotted cream made from reindeer milk. With copious glasses of tea, and the food finished; they sat around the fire talking as it slowly burned down. Okhchen asked about the reindeer. Lifshen replied that the party had released them to forage at Tunguska and as far as he knew, they would still be there.

Okhchen glanced at Karyn. Whereabouts were they likely to be?

She shrugged in a very Russian way, and replied,

'D'yavol znayet tol'ko gde'.... 'The Devil only knows where.'

Okhchen nodded and grinned.

'No matter; they will return here when the first "Whisper of the Stars and The ghost of the winter hare" comes upon them.'

By this, he meant the air frost into which, as you exhaled, the water vapour crystallised almost instantly and then burst with a barely audible tinkle… the "Whisper of the Stars"; and the first flurries of snowflakes... "The ghost of the winter hare."

They sat around the fire talking until nothing remained but a heap of glowing embers, and a great yellow moon was rising pale in the east. The conversation dwindled as the night became chill; and one, by one, the herdsmen left the communal circle and departed for the peaty warmth of their Choum.

Beyond the dying glow and occasional snap of the fire embers; the dense surrounding forest whispering softly to the passing wind and the occasional lonely cries of night birds on the river were the only sounds. Karyn stood, and bid Okhchen and Lifshen goodnight, and walked carefully through the darkness to the visitor's Choum.

The interior was identical to the one she had entered at the first Evenki settlement they had reached on the outward journey. The Choum contained the same pattern of ancient box stove in the centre of the floor space; while on either side were the two rows of wooden floorboards, on which were piled reindeer hides that served as the sleeping area. She sat, and removed her boots and portyanki foot wrappings; relishing the sense of freedom as she wiggled her toes luxuriantly. She slipped off her soiled coveralls and slipped in under the reindeer hide. She hadn't felt so comfy and snug for days, and within a few minutes, was sound asleep.

She was wakened in the small hours of the morning by the drumming of rain on the angled birch bark and leather walls of the Choum and the freshening wind sobbing in the treetops. Sleepily, she turned over and snuggled down again under the soft, warm hides.

In the morning, the rain had ceased and the clouds were breaking into the endless, deep blue of the morning skies, as the rising sun brushed away the chill clinging to the shadows of the forest. Shreds of fleecy mist rose and hovered over the flat calm of the Chamba, and the wonderfully fresh smell of rain-washed pine trees floated in the air. Across the settlement clearing, Lifshen was off-loading two of the spare jerry cans of petrol, and deep in conversation with Okhchen. She overhead him talking about the guide Juchin Chernyak. Lifshen was explaining that the guide would not be returning. He had met with an "accident" up at Tunguska.

As Lifshen spoke; the inscrutable expression on Okhchen's face suddenly broke into a wide grin. He said that he was not Juchin's "Ded"... grandfather; and had been forced, with dire threats of exile to Kolyma, to deceive the herdsmen of the settlement into believing that the young Mongolian was indeed, his "rodstvennik"... his kin. If the little svoloch had met his end out there; then the justice of their God, Jiyachi was indeed, great and benevolent

Lifshen saw Karyn, and beckoned her over. It was time to leave. The two jerry cans of petrol were a gift to Okhchen for his hospitality, and payment for the two pack bags containing their supplies which he had insisted that they kept. The Pauzok had been loaded with fresh water and a bag of cooked reindeer meat and "lepushki" for the journey by the herdsmen, who helped Karyn aboard while Lifshen wound the propeller round to clear the oil in the lower engine cylinders. He flicked up the magneto switches and swung the propeller. The engine back-fired twice and hesitantly picked up its revs, belching blue smoke into the clear morning air as Lifshen clambered into the seat and strapped himself in. The herdsman on the bank released the tethering rope and tossed it to Karyn, as, with a rising, clattering bellow, the Shvetsov engine settled into its usual lumpy rhythm and the Pauzok moved away from the river bank.

With a last wave to her Evenki hosts; Karyn settled herself in the bow of the Pauzok as Lifshen wound open the throttle grip and steered the craft out to mid-river. Peering into the thinning mist he saw no obstacles ahead and twisted the throttle grip fully open. With the blaring crackle of the engine's exhaust stubs echoing across the calm flat of the Chamba; the craft picked up speed as its backwash carved a white furrow into the pristine lustre of the river's surface.

Mladshiy Lejtenant Aviatsii... Junior Lieutenant Andrei Nikolaevich trudged resignedly up the quagmire that they called the main street of Vanavara, trying to keep his steps on the roughly-laid timber beams that served as the raised edge of the kerb tracing out the boundary of the roadway. With his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets; he quietly cursed Voyentekhnik Aviatsii... Airforce Technical Lieutenant Cheslav Istomin, for sending him down to the furthest house in the village with a fresh bottle of vodka for the aerodrome's Commanding Officer... Polkóvnik Aviatsii... Colonel Feliks Cherkesov, who was spending the morning, engaged in yet one more energetic bout of vodka-fuelled Trajat'sya… bed warming, with his twenty-year-old mistress, Kseniya Grigorevna.

This bloody mud was ruining his boots... and all because Cherkesov couldn't keep up... (Or keep it up) with his bl'ad'... his slut; who was young enough to be his granddaughter... without first getting oiled up on vodka. Then he grinned. Lucky old svoloch!

His thoughts were shattered by the raucous clatter of a Shvetsov engine; at first distant, but getting louder by the minute. He scanned the skies, looking for the U-2 Biplane. Nothing there! It must be bloody low to be out of sight. Then, it struck him. It must be the Pauzok coming back up the Angara. He broke into a trot, splashing mud up his prized boots as he hurried through the village towards the landing stage.

As Nikolaevich reached the rickety landing stage he was surprised to see that the approaching Pauzok carried two occupants. He had expected to see only the NKVD Lieutenant; so who was his passenger? As the craft approached he saw that it was the pretty German Doktor who had arrived in the Kezhma Fox Moth with two GUGB Officers; had been equipped at Vanavara, and taken up to Okhchen’s hut by Technical Lieutenant Cheslav Istomin in the aerodrome's Stalingradec Artillery Tractor. Istomin had dropped them off and returned. Nothing out of the ordinary had been mentioned by him on his return.

Nikolaevich was clutched by a growing feeling of unease as the Pauzok throttled back and slowed to come alongside the landing stage. Where were the two GUGB? Something must have happened out there to them... and that meant a Security Services investigation!

He watched the NKVD Officer. Behind his goggles; Lifshen's eyes betrayed nothing. His expression was impassive. The girl smiled at Nikolaevich and tossed a rope to him. He swiftly moored the craft to one of the rudimentary wooden bollards and reached down to offer his hand to the girl as Lifshen shut down the engine. She threw two Evenki reindeer pack bags up onto the landing stage and accepted Nikolaevich's offered hand as he pulled her up onto the rough planking walkway.

Pulling the earplugs from her ears; she smiled at Nikolaevich.

'Thank you, Lieutenant. That was quite a trip.'

Lifshen pulled off his goggles and removed his earplugs. He climbed onto the landing stage; stretching his legs, and looking around. He turned to Nikolaevich.

'Any transport Lieutenant?'

Andrei snapped to attention.

'I regret not, Comrade Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti. I walked down from the aerodrome on an assignment for the C.O. Perhaps I can roust out one of the locals to give you a lift back.'

Lifshen shook his head.

'No matter. We can easily walk... and I could do with stretching my legs after sitting in that bloody seat for hours.'

As they squelched their way through the muddy tracks that the residents of Vanavara had the effrontery to call roads; Nikolaevich gathered his courage and hesitantly broached with Lifshen, the subject of the missing members of the expedition team; not knowing quite how the NKVD Officer would react.

Lifshen replied, quite unconcernedly, that they had decided to venture out into the swamp, disregarding their guide's advice; and had been sucked down before anyone could get anywhere near enough to rescue them. It was a typical example of pig-headed GUGB behaviour, and they had paid the price for their obstinate stupidity.

Andrei Nikolaevich began to offer his sympathies to Lifshen and Karyn, but was cut short, and told that a report would be lodged in due course, and the pressing need now, was to arrange a flight back to Kansk. Perceiving that this was not a subject to dwell upon; Nikolaevich said he would arrange the flight as soon as they reached the aerodrome.

Technical Lieutenant Cheslav Istomin had just finished his third glass of vodka and was about to pour himself another, when the door of his office in the long, wooden building with the little control cabin perched half-way along the ridge of its roof, that served as Vanavara aerodrome flying control headquarters opened, and Nikolaevich entered, followed by the pretty German girl he had transported north to Okhchen’s hut, and a man he didn't recognise. Quickly he pushed the desk drawer that contained his vodka closed with his knee and began to stand up. No one else came in. Where were the other two members of the party he had taken north?... And who was this with the girl? The vodka was dulling his wits.

His wits were however, considerably, and immediately sharpened when Nikolaevich introduced the man as Lejtenant Gozbezopasnosti... Lieutenant of State Security, Lifshen of the Kansk NKVD. Cheslav Istomin was now bitterly regretting hitting the bottle. You had to stay sharp when you were dealing with these NKVD svolochi. Perhaps he was far enough away not to smell the aroma of vodka.

Lifshen was towering over him as Istomin froze, half standing behind his desk. The NKVD Officer grinned.

'Well, Lieutenant; the least you could do is to offer the Lady and me a glass of your badly-concealed vodka.'

Istomin merely gaped at Lifshen, who sighed heavily, and continued,

'Don't piss your panties. I don't give a flying fuck what you get up to while you're on duty up here. We've had one hell of a trip down here, and all I want is a flight out of this shit-hole as soon as possible. Now get the bottle out and relax.'

Karyn refused the proffered drink and said she would like to go to the barracks, have a shower, and dress in her own clothes. Lifshen nodded, and the young Yefreytor... the corporal who had brought her expedition clothing and shown her how to wrap the portyanki foot wraps, was summoned to accompany her to the barracks. He said that there was still no sign of a Politruk... Political officer being attached to the aerodrome, and her civilian clothes and briefcase were still in the wardrobe of the little room at the end of the dormitory. He handed her an antique key; blushingly saying that he had scrounged an ancient padlock and secured the little room, otherwise all the aerodrome's randy young airmen would have had a field-day fondling her civilian underwear. She smiled her thanks. He was sweet, and about eighteen.

Entering the barracks; she walked to the little room. The showers were off to one side of the main dormitory. All her clothes were just as she had left them, and she saw that there were two large towels folded onto the bed. The young corporal must have even thought of that while they were away to the north. As she was taking off her coveralls there was a soft knock on the door. The young corporal's voice said that he would stay outside the closed door of the barracks to make sure no one tried to come in while she was in the showers. Karyn smiled to herself, and called "thank you," as she began to undress.

As the needles of hot water from the ancient, gurgling geyser that powered the shower head caressed her skin, washing away the grime of Tunguska; Karyn sifted through all the events that had occurred during the last few days. Was Lifshen actually on the level?... or was his apparent change of heart just one more pre-planned facet of Yezhov's maze of intrigue? Was he aware that she possessed the dreadful artefact that Sergeyev had discovered concealed in Kulik's hut... the artefact that Yezhov must never become aware of, and, most certainly, never possess? She must get it out of Russia and back to Berlin at all costs. The Russians must never suspect that anything was found at Tunguska. She must destroy the critical parts of her deciphering notes. Without them; no one would bother to try and decipher the inscribed script again, and the artefact's terrible, evil secret would remain undisturbed. Himmler, besotted by his weird fetish concerning mysticism, could probably be persuaded that it was merely some Untermensch mystical curiosity.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Winding the industrial-type water valves of the shower closed; she wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the shower stall. The dormitory was deserted. Quickly, she padded to the little end room and closed the door. Sitting on the bed, drying her hair; she wondered where and when... if her intuitive feeling about Lifshen was correct and he was playing a deceptive stratagem; he was likely to make his move.

It would probably occur on the Trans-Siberian express, somewhere out on any one of the many bleak, and uninhabited sections of the line. It would most likely be the bullet in the back of the head, and dumping out onto the tracks from the speeding express. She sighed. So much for keeping the archaeology pure... as her old Professor back at the University in Frankfurt-am-Main had exhorted her to do.

Her hair was almost dry. She sat before the ancient mirror and gazed into its foxed and foggy depths. Her eyes looked a little older… a little wiser; but other than that, she didn't notice any real wear and tear from the hardships of the expedition. Having brushed her hair; she dressed in her civilian clothes that had remained safely in the old wardrobe, and turning to the mirror again; applied a touch of make-up. These simple things made her feel so much more feminine.

She removed the silenced Mauser Bolo; its spare ammunition, and the malevolent artefact from the Evenki reindeer pack bag and reached for the brown briefcase that the German Embassy in Moscow had provided for her. It still contained the little Walther PPK, the fighting knife, and the remaining Reichsbank paper-wrapped tubes containing the Prussian Twenty Mark gold pieces that Himmler had provided as "usable collateral."

The distinctive oval badge depicting a sword overlaid with a hammer and sickle... the GUGB cipher, embossed on the briefcase flap was unmistakeable. It screamed "Lubyanka briefcase." No one would dare to even think about demanding to inspect its contents. She tipped the contents out onto the bed and felt for the concealed catch in the bottom of the briefcase. With a soft click; a section of the bottom board slipped back revealing a secret compartment. Into this, she placed the handful of Gold Ten Chervonets coins she had gathered and secreted in her coveralls, from the money belt Lifshen had discovered on Sergeyev's corpse back at Tunguska. These would doubtless be useful during her journey out of Russia. She picked up the Special Section OO-GUGB Identity card and tucked into her inside jacket pocket. Turning back to the briefcase; she closed the secret compartment and placed the malevolent artefact at the bottom of the case. The assorted maps went in next; followed by the tubes of Gold Prussian Marks, her Walther, snug in its little holster; and the fighting knife. The silenced Mauser was placed on top of everything; safety off, and ready to fire. Her instinct was that if Lifshen was not what he purported to be; he would eventually order her to open the briefcase at gunpoint.

The first item she would feel as she put her hand inside the briefcase would be the Mauser. He was not aware that she had retrieved it from the table in Kulik's hut... as far as he was concerned; it was still there. He would not suppose that the sinister Lubyanka briefcase would be his executioner... if she remained calm and appeared to be obeying his command at gunpoint to give him its contents. The contents however, would not be quite what he expected. The contents he would receive would be two or three of Juchin Chernyak's special, high-velocity bullets punching out through the leather of the briefcase's end wall.

Closing the briefcase flap; she stood, and inspected herself in the ancient mirror. She smiled. Yes, she'd do. Picking up the briefcase, she walked down the dormitory to the door and opened it. The young corporal was waiting outside. His eyes widened at her transformation; then, with a blush, said that they should return to the flying control building. As they walked across the empty aerodrome, she reflected on just how good Sacha Sergeyev had been in his deception. She would not be making that mistake again.

Istomin, Lifshen, and Nikolaevich were sitting, drinking vodka when she entered the flying control building. Their conversation stopped when they saw the briefcase she was carrying. Lifshen regarded her carefully. So, she was GUGB after all. Istomin motioned her to the spare chair and poured her a glass of vodka. He informed her that a flight had been arranged. The aeroplane was flying in from Kansk, but would not arrive until the next morning. They would have to spend the night here, on the aerodrome.

Andrei Nikolaevich said that she could have his room and he would bed down in the barracks... as would Lifshen. She would not be disturbed. If she had any apprehension about being the only woman amongst a hundred men who hadn't seen a real, sophisticated woman for months; he would post a guard at her door. She smiled, and said that was not necessary; she had her own protection... patting the sinister briefcase.

Nikolaevich's room in the Officers barracks was spartan, but comfortable. The window of the room faced north, with the bed positioned so that she could lie and watch the flickering Northern lights. Nikolaevich settled her in and took his leave; bidding her goodnight. Somewhere in the barracks, one of its occupants was playing gramophone records... classical music.

As she undressed, and slipped into bed; through the open curtain, she could see the Northern lights beginning to dance across the skies; a glowing curtain of greenish lights, flickering in the distance, and swelling to a spectacular, multi-coloured fusion stretching across the heavens. Fascinated; she watched the display for something like a quarter of an hour as she relaxed. Sleepily, she noted the gramophone player switch records to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. She snuggled down under the covers, and, as the Scène Moderato came to its ending and the first bars of the Waltz floated on the cold night air; she slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She was awakened by a gentle tap on the door. She called "Come in." and the young corporal shyly entered with a glass of tea which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. He bashfully said that it was almost 09.00am and she was invited to share "zavtrak"... breakfast in the pilot's mess in twenty minutes. The aeroplane was on its way and would arrive by 10.00am. He would wait for her outside the dormitory.

Having washed and dressed; she picked up the briefcase and stepped outside to be escorted to the mess next to the flying control hut. It was a beautiful morning. The smell of autumn was in the air, and the leaves of the deciduous trees on the edge of the taiga were beginning to burn golden. Entering the mess; she was surprised by the youthful appearance of the pilots gathered there. Not one looked older than eighteen. Istomin was holding court; spinning yarns of his early flying days.

As the young corporal conducted her to her seat at the long spruce table, the conversation stopped abruptly, and the young flyers stood, and snapped to attention; watching her with admiring glances. Self-consciously, she indicated that they should relax and sit down. Istomin had obviously taken at face value, Lifshen's intimation that she was something relatively influential in the Moscow GUGB Directorate. The mess orderly brought her breakfast as the conversation resumed. She hadn't known what to expect on this remote aerodrome. Perhaps it would be simply bread and coffee or tea. She would have been wrong. The orderly brought a bowl of Kasha... a type of porridge made from buckwheat with a choice of toppings: sour cream, cold meat; salted fish, and a choice of berries. This was followed by a pile of blini, huge, plain omelettes made from two or three eggs; and sandwiches consisting of cured or salted meats.

A small communal kettle containing tea concentrate was passed around; from which a quantity of this concentrate was poured into each tea glass. The owner of this glass then mixed it with hot water from a large samovar sitting in the centre of the long table. Containers of sugar, lemon; honey or jam were then passed around for those who wished to add whichever, according to their taste. Karyn decided to try just the tea. It was reddish-brown, and the taste was strong and smoky... but not unpleasant. The young pilot next to her explained that this was "Russian Caravan"... a blend of China teas that came from the Chinese-Russian border regions and originally was transported along the "Tea Road" on slow-moving camel caravans; but was now brought in on the Trans-Siberian express.

He laughed.

'We do all right here, Comrade Doktor. Not quite Proletariat stuff... but then, neither is chugging about the wilderness in these ramshackle U-2s. We've lost four pilots out there somewhere in the last five months; and we never know when it'll be our turn to 'buy the farm' as we say when we run out of sky.'

He laughed again.

'Mind you; I'm not complaining. It's a damn sight better than being a "Krasnoarmeyets"... a Red Army warrior!'

His banter; which... if she had actually been GUGB; would, at the very least, have been regarded as subversive, and earned him either a bullet in the back of his head, or a lengthy vacation on the Kolyma peninsula; was forgotten, as Junior Lieutenant Andrei Nikolaevich poked his head around the door and said that the aeroplane from Kansk was two kilometres out, and on final approach.

Lifshen and Karyn finished their glasses of tea and rose to leave. She picked up her briefcase and faced the assembled young pilots who, at her insistence; had all remained in their seats.

She smiled at them.

'Thank you for your hospitality, gentlemen. I wish you good flying.'

She smiled again, and added,

"Ni pukha ni pera."

This was the Russian equivalent of the universal flyers' idiom: "Break a Leg." For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a great burst of cheering and clapping, the young pilots shouted in unison, the traditional reply...

"Idi k chertu"..." "Go to the devil!"

Outside the mess hut; they stood, and watched the approaching aeroplane. It was very low... and very big. Andrei Nikolaevich paled visibly. He cursed quietly... almost as an aside; staring at the oncoming, twin-engined aeroplane.

'Job tvojemadj!... The stupid bastards have sent a bloody PS-9! Our strip isn't long enough. He'll end up in the fucking trees!'

He broke into a run towards the flying control hut to sound the crash alarm. He had made about half-distance when the aeroplane came in over the boundary fence, almost scraping the wire. Just short of the grass landing strip, the pilot chopped power to both engines and brought the aeroplane down with a dull thump and rumble as the fixed undercarriage wheels made contact with the grass. The huge flaps hung fully down from beneath the wings like barn doors as they bit into the airflow under the wings, and gradually slowed the aeroplane's rumbling charge down the diminishing landing strip. Smoke began streaming from its wheel hubs as the pilot stood on the brakes.

Still it charged on down the landing strip; its propellers windmilling lethargically, with the boundary of the mown grass approaching rapidly; until... with its wheels actually onto the grass of the run-off strip, and the forest looming; the pilot swung the aeroplane to starboard and brought it to a standstill. Several of the young pilots had scrambled from the mess hut to watch the landing. Now, they clapped and whistled and cheered, as the pilot of the PS-9 revved up the engines and taxied gently to where the group was standing.

The pilot switched off the engines, and clambered out of his seat, followed by his co-pilot. They watched him move down the passenger compartment towards the door on the port side below the wing trailing edge. As the hot engines tinkled and ticked; the door opened, and the pilot emerged; jumping down onto the grass, followed by a very pale-looking co-pilot.

Andrei Nikolaevich had returned. He looked at the pilot.

'You mad bastard, Ustin; you know this landing strip is only just over fourteen hundred metres, and still you decide to bring this flying chicken shed in. You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.'

The pilot laughed.

'You're right, Andrei. It was a bit tight, but they don't call Ustin Domashevich; Aviatsii Major, by God's Good Grace, in the Heroic Workers-Peasants Red Army Air Force: "The Eagle Owl" for nothing. The old girl would have slowed down much quicker if I'd had my normal load of half-a-dozen fat Commissars on board, but, empty... she tends to have one or two little surprises in store.'

The co-pilot snorted.

'One or two little surprises? My asshole was as tight as an over-strung balalaika, you crazy bastard!'

Lifshen stepped in.

'Stop pissing about and get the aeroplane ready. We are on important NKVD business, Comrade Major.'

The pilot looked him up and down. They were the same rank. He raised an eyebrow.

'Don't start trying to be such a "shíshka"... a big shot, with me, Comrade. Things are changing. Your boss, the Poisoned Dwarf's star is starting to fade fast. The word is, that he is about to be relieved of his post as the People's Commissar for Internal Affairs, and is to be succeeded by that Georgian asshole Beria, who is about to become head of the GUGB Main Administration of State Security. You could be skating on thin ice right now... depending on whom your Directorate Chief has hitched his wagon to.'

Lifshen glanced at Karyn at the mention of the GUGB. Was that a shadow of nervousness in his eyes? Then the moment had passed. He looked at the pilot and nodded.

'Very well. Just hurry up. We have a train to catch at Kansk.'

Ten minutes later, with the refuelling completed, they boarded the aeroplane. Karyn thought how it reminded her of the Junkers 52's that Lufthansa operated. It had the same sort of corrugated fuselage, and the engine housings were the same profile as the Heinkel in which she had made the outward journey. This was not surprising as they were Soviet-licensed copies of the German BMW V-12 liquid-cooled engines that powered both the HE 70 Blitz she had flown out on, and the HE 51's that had come to their aid when they were intercepted by the Polish PZL's.

The Tupolev PS-9 was a nine-seater troop or VIP transport. The cabin was fitted with four seats on the port side, and five seats on the starboard side of the centre aisle, which were basically, wicker chairs with fold-down armrest extensions on the aisle side of each seat which locked closed, securing the passengers in their seats. The seats were not fitted with seat harness. Running the length of the cabin on both sides were luggage nets high up above the rows of seats. The aisle led to the cockpit which was not closed off from the passenger cabin. The four large windows on either side of the cabin were fitted with curtains. Karyn chose a seat on the starboard side under the shadow of the wing. Lifshen sat in a port side seat, one place back. The pilot and co-pilot came aboard and moved towards the cockpit; checking that the arm extensions to the seats were locked.

Satisfied their passengers were secure; they disappeared into the cockpit, and went through the pre-flight checks. All completed; Aviatsii Major Domashevich pushed the engine start buttons; and with the same engine whine and cough that Karyn remembered from when Willi Hettinger had started up the Heinkel Blitz back at Wilhelmsdorf aerodrome, she watched the engines belch blue smoke and roar into life as the prop-wash whipped the cloud of fuel-rich smoke back over the top surface of the high wings. Domashevich revved each engine in turn and performed his mag-drop checks; then, released the brakes and taxied back down the field to the far boundary of the landing strip. He turned the aeroplane and lined her nose up with the ribbon of mown grass; glancing across to the bedraggled windsock that fluttered lethargically from its post above the flying control hut. He glanced across at his co-pilot, Maksim Pankov.

'As droopy as a bad case of vodka dick… so hardly any wind. Hang on Max; this is going to be a hot one. Give me full power.'

Pankov eyed his Captain nervously and pushed the twin throttles forward with a smooth movement, right up to the throttle-box stops; holding them there, in case the friction locks on the levers crept off with the vibration from the screaming engines. Domashevich held the shuddering Tupolev on the brakes until the twin rev counter needles were right up on the red line. With a final swift glance across the instruments, he wound down fifteen degrees of flap, and released the brakes.

The Tupolev leapt forwards; gathering speed and bumping over the grass. He watched the airspeed indicator needle creeping up; forty-five... fifty... fifty-five knots. She should start to flutter her controls at sixty. The normal take-off run was one hundred-and- seventy-five metres into wind; but there was no wind today. He rocked the control column; the tail was up but she just didn't want to un-stick, and they were almost half-way down the landing strip.

Pankov's face was as white as a ghost. Domashevich was beginning to sweat. He had one trick left... but his timing would have to be perfect, otherwise they'd overshoot and flatten half the village. The end of the grass strip was approaching fast. He shouted to Pankov,

'Through the gate, Max... NOW!'

Pankov rammed the throttle levers all the way forward through the copper safety wires at the furthermost travel of the quadrant. The rev counter needles flicked around deep into the red segments of the dials, as, at the same instant; Domashevich dropped another five degrees of flap. The Tupolev jerked upwards... almost as though she had run up against an invisible step. He heaved back on the control column; and with her engines bellowing; the Tupolev finally and grudgingly came unstuck and lifted clear of the Vanavara landing strip.

The old village carpenter, Ilya Grabianko was riding his ancient, ramshackle bicycle past the end of the runway. Ilya was very deaf; but a movement out of the corner of his eye made him glance over the boundary fence of the aerodrome. To his horror; he saw the big aeroplane rushing straight at him, not five metres off the ground. He dived off his bicycle; landing in the muddy ditch, as the seemingly huge aeroplane lumbered overhead, climbing away into the sky. He raised his arm to shake his fist... and then, the whirlwind of wet grass, old leaves, and mud from the aeroplane's prop-wash engulfed him; scooping him off his feet, and dumping him back into the ditch.

When he crawled back out, spitting damp leaves and grass; the big aeroplane was climbing steadily away from Vanavara and turning into the south-west for its two and a half hour flight to Kansk; urged on by old Ilya Grabianko's heartfelt farewell:

"Poshel ty!... YA zasral na tvoyu mamu, ty, Letayushchiy zasranets!"… "Fuck You!... I shit on your Mother, you Flying Asshole!"

Aviatsii Major Ustin Domashevich eased the throttles of the old Tupolev back to cruise revs as he settled down for the four- hundred-kilometre flight to Kansk. His co-pilot, Maksim Pankov was still white-faced, and silent from the take-off from Vanavara. Still; what did he expect from this old tub? Built in 1930, and mercilessly thrashed by the ham-fisted pilots of the joint Soviet-German airline, Deruluft, on the Moscow-Königsberg, and Berlin-Tallinn-Leningrad routes until two years ago; she was then impressed into the Red Army Air Force, and used as a general run-about at Kansk aerodrome. His own aeroplane; one of the new Tupolev ANT-35's; with twice the speed; three times the engine power, and two-and-a-half times the range, had been commandeered by the personal pilot of the Krasnoyarsk Oblast Commissar to take his staff and their mistresses to an official "function" in Novosbirsk; leaving him to fly this corrugated crate out to a backwoods shit-hole to pick up, and return with two Moscow Security investigators.

He grinned. The old girl was a bit of a clunker, but when she had the wind under her wings, she was as stable as a rock. He glanced at the airspeed indicator. The pointer was steady at one hundred knots... hardly nose-bleed inducing stuff; but it was a beautiful day for flying, with scarcely a cloud in the sky. He glanced back over his shoulder. His passengers seemed happy enough The NKVD was relaxed and gazing out of the window; the girl was rummaging in her briefcase. He turned his head back and cast his eyes over the instruments. Every reading was normal. Just as well the Germans had designed these engines as strongly as a brick-built crapper. With the thrashing he'd just given them on take-off, he was half expecting a con-rod through the engine block at the very least. But, no... everything was fine. He settled back in his seat and wondered if the pretty young graduate of the Zhukovskyi Air Force Engineering Academy; Tanya Konstantinova, who was attached to the engineering section at Kansk; and whom he had been chasing for weeks; would let him give her "The Business" tonight. He glanced idly out of the port window at the endless, featureless green sea below. He smiled again. If she said no... it wasn't for the want of trying. Oh well, he'd find out soon enough.