4

They agreed to wait until dawn. It didn’t seem right to sleep, so Iain stayed by the window and watched for any signs of trouble.

As soon as the light outside turned grainy, they were out in the open, pushing their way forward through the snow. The guide nodded towards the yellow rind of sun and he and Iain settled Ilya Shashkov into the canvas harness of the drag sledge. The guide fastened his hat under his chin, grabbed the poles and began to pull.

They walked for an hour before stopping. The Riedles had packed hurriedly by oillight, without making a sound, stuffing their most prized things into an assortment of bags. Scrambling across the tall snow, they pumped and heaved their legs, steam wisps curling from their mouths.

By eight o’clock they’d made it to the banks of the Amur. Through the clearing they saw the river. Everyone’s breathing grew more and more laboured as they broke into a run. Then the poles snapped. And Shashkov’s arms and legs fell to the ground with a thump.

‘‘We’ll have to carry him,’’ said Iain.

Crossing the frozen river, however, would be more treacherous, explained the guide. ‘‘There is no cover so we will be completely exposed. Anyone could be watching out for us, including Red Guards. Their long-range rifles are accurate over a range of 200 yards.’’

With one arm wrapped round Ilya Shashkov’s frail body, Iain grabbed hold of a handful of coat, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the snow. They were yards now from the water’s frozen edge and Iain’s face was breaking out into wild grimaces of delight – the thrilling taste of escape was intoxicating.

‘‘Wait!’’ The guide hissed.

‘‘What is it?’’ said Iain.

‘‘Do you hear them?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Can you not smell it?’’

‘‘Smell what?’’ But as Iain said this, he knew exactly what the guide was talking about. The stink of horse dung was sharp.

In the distance, dogs were barking; Iain was sure he could now hear other sounds too – the trailing shouts of men, the neighing and whickering of horses, the thrumming of boot-clad feet trampling the ground. ‘‘Are they on to us?’’ he asked.

The guide lifted his rifle.

Muscles quivering, their lips blue, all of them dropped to the ground and hunkered down by the stump of a felled tree. Curled up in their fleeces, they struggled to control the tempo of their breathing.

Nadia’s father began to wheeze and cough up blood. His entire body throbbed and trembled. ‘‘He is very sick,’’ said Riedle. ‘‘We must get him to drink liquid. His pulse is very weak.’’

‘‘Do you see any Red Guards?’’ Iain said.

‘‘Not yet. But I hear them. Keep low and they will pass.’’

‘‘Are you not listening to me?’’ Riedle cried. ‘‘This man is dying.’’

The veins on Shashkov’s temple were throbbing violently through his skin. Iain comforted him and rubbed his back. ‘‘Breathe,’’ he said in English. ‘‘Breathe deeply. And here,’’ he withdrew a skin of water from his satchel. ‘‘Drink this,’’ he said to Ilya. He tilted the skin to his lips. Ilya Shashkov nodded, appeared to understand. He extended a pink tongue, thick and fat like a slice of gammon. Some of the water had frozen, but a few droplets managed to find their way down Ilya’s throat.

‘‘Nadia,’’ he said out of the corner of his crooked mouth as he drank, spilling dribbles down his chin. ‘‘Mnye noozhna pamatryet Nadia.’’ He gestured with his hand that he wanted to look at her photograph again.

‘‘Later. You will see her later,’’ said Iain. ‘‘I promise you. Don’t fall asleep, Ilya. Don’t sleep.’’

Mrs. Riedle put her hand to Shashkov’s forehead. ‘‘He is burning.’’

‘‘He will not survive this,’’ Riedle said. ‘‘We must get him indoors.’’ Extricating himself from his wife’s arms, Riedle got to his feet quickly, like a marionette being pulled up by strings. ‘‘Get down!’’ said the guide. ‘‘They will see you!’’

But Riedle was already half-way up the embankment.

Iain reached out and tried to grab him. He’d scarcely moved when a large cat bounded past them, followed seconds later by an enormous black horse. The horse hurdled them all, including the stump of the felled tree, and galloped away, pounding past them at speed. The rider was sitting in a forward position in the saddle, holding the reins in one hand, whilst clutching a curved saber in the other.

‘‘What the hell was that?’’ said Iain.

‘‘Deerhunters!’’ said the guide.

‘‘Deerhunters?’’

‘‘Did you see that cat? It is a leopard. It belongs to the woodsmen. They use it to hunt sika deer.’’

‘‘So they’re not Red Guards?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘In that case, let’s move! We’ve got to get Shashkov across now!’’

 

Iain could hear and taste and feel only the wind.

Overhead clouds had turned parts of the sky dark blue, bruising the heavens like a subcutaneous contusion. A thunderclap shook the air and there followed a few seconds of suspenseful silence. They were half way across.

The blizzard had dropped onto them quickly.

Lurching crablike into the spindrift Iain pushed forward. He wrapped his arms around Ilya Shashkov and exhaled deeply. Engulfed in a maelstrom of storm debris, the whiteout enveloped them like a giant hand, tossing them, rolling them.

They were mid-river, traversing fractured young ice. Iain knew that they might fall through at every step. Crack-lines appeared everywhere across the frozen river’s surface.

Nadia’s father was desperately tired, slumping to the ground every few steps. Iain didn’t dare proceed at pace, lest they dropped through into the freezing water. He flexed the fingers of his left fist. Heart pounding, he realized his hands were beginning to die, succumbing to frostbite. They kept advancing, one step, two steps, testing the fissuring, latticed crust for its weight, heading into the unknown. Despite being –15 C, their clothes were wet with perspiration, a wetness which quickly turned into a thin film of frost on their skin whenever they stopped moving. A few minutes later, the guide cried out. ‘‘Follow my voice. Do not get separated!’’

A little after that, Ilya began coughing up a red mucus again. Bones trembling, Iain lifted him onto his shoulders, so that Ilya’s cheek rested against Iain’s ear. Almost there, he kept telling Ilya, almost there.

They crept forward.

Iain asked Shashkov how he was doing. There was no reply.

The guide cried out once again; his shouts vanished instantly in the storm.

Iain’s voice was calm. ‘‘Say something, Ilya.’’ But Shashkov remained silent and the thickness of the silence crushed his ears. He wanted to put him down and shake him. ‘‘Ilya Shashkov!’’ he shouted. The words emerged from the pit of his stomach. ‘‘Don’t you dare die on me!’’

Iain pushed on. Squalling sheets of snow formed in front of his eyes. He was walking into a wall of white so blinding that it hurt his eyes. From somewhere ahead came the sound of an engine. And then he saw the truck and the four men approaching, faces chalked with snow, appearing like ghosts out of a mist.

He felt them take Ilya Shashkov off of him, spreading their blankets over him.

He felt their arms clasp tight round his waist. His mind clouded. He could rest now, he said to himself. He could rest. Seconds later he passed out.