'But it's not, you see. "Chizhikov" was one of Stalin's aliases before the Revolution. Stalin was issued with a passport in the name of P. A. Chizhikov in 1911 .'
(Are you excited, Dr Kelso? Do you feel the force of Comrade Stalin, even from the grave?'And he did. He did feel it. He felt as if a hand had reached out from the snow and touched his shoulder.) O'Brian was quiet for a few seconds, but then he gave a dismissive sweep of his metal case. 'Well, you can stand here and commune with history if you want. I'm going to go and find it.' He set off across the street, turning as he walked. 'You coming or not? The train to Moscow leaves at ten past eight tonight. Or you can come with me. Make your choice'
Kelso hesitated. He looked up again at the tumbling sky. It wasn't like any snowfall he had ever known in England or the States. It was as if something was disintegrating up there
- flaking to pieces and crashing around them.
Choice? he thought. For a man with no visa and no money, no job, no book? For a man who had come this far? And what choice would that be, exactly?
Slowly, reluctantly, he began to walk towards the car.
THEY headed back out of the city, along a minor road, and northwards, so at least there was no GAl checkpoint to negotiate.
By now it must have been about one o'clock.
The road ran alongside an overgrown railroad track lined with ancient freight cars, and to start with it wasn't too bad. It could almost have been romantic, in the right company.
They overtook a gaily painted cart being pulled by a pony, its head down into the wind, and soon there were more wooden houses, also bright with paint - blue, green, red leaning in a picturesque way out in the marshland at the end of wooden jettys. In the snow it wasn't possible to tell where the solid ground ended and water began. Boats, cars, sheds, chicken coops and tethered goats were jumbled together. Even the big wood pulp mill across the wide Dvina, on the southern headland, had a kind of epic beauty, its cranes and smoking chimneys silhouetted against the concrete sky.
But then, abruptly, the houses disappeared and so did their view of the river. At the same time the hard surface gave way beneath their wheels and they began jolting along a rutted track. Birch and pine trees closed around them. In less than fifteen minutes they might have been a thousand miles from Archangel rather than a mere ten. The road wound on through the muffled forest. Sometimes the trees grew high and fine. But occasionally the woodland would thin and they would find themselves in a wilderness of blackened, blighted stumps, like a battlefield after heavy shelling. Or - and this was oddly more disconcerting - they would suddenly come across a small plantation of tall radio antennae.
Listening posts, O'Brian said, eavesdropping on Northern NATO.
He started to sing. Walking in a Winter Wonderland Kelso stood it for a couple of verses. 'Do you have to?' O'Brian stopped.
'Gloomy sonofabitch,' he muttered under his breath.
The snow was still falling steadily. Occasional gunshots cracked and echoed in the distance - hunters in the woods -sending panicky birds flapping and crying across the track.
They went through several small villages, each smaller and more dilapidated than the last - a barracks in one with graffiti on its walls, and a satellite dish: a little chunk of Archangel dropped in the middle of nowhere. There was no one to be seen except a couple of gawping children and an old woman dressed entirely in black who (stood at the roadside and tried to wave them down. When O'Brian didn't slow she shook her fist and cursed them.
'Hag.' O'Brian looked back at her in the mirror. 'What's eating her? Where are all the men, anyway? Drunk?' He meant it as a joke.
'Probably.'
'No? What? All of them?'
'Most of them, I should think. Home-made vodka. What else is there to do?'
'Jesus, what a country.
After a while O'Brian began to sing again, but un4er his breath now and less confidently than before.
'We're walking in a winter wonderland...'
ONE hour passed, then another.
A couple of times the river came back briefly into view, and that, as O'Brian said, was a sight and a half- the swampy land, the wide and sluggish mass of water and, far beyond it, the flat, dark mass of trees picking up again, only to dissolve into the waves of snow. It was a primordial landscape. Kelso could imagine a dinosaur moving slowly across it.
From the map it was hard to tell exactly where they were. No habitations were recorded, no landmarks. He suggested they stop at the next village and try to regain their bearings.
'Whatever you want.
But the next village was a long time coming, it never came, and Kelso noticed that the snow on the track was virgin: there hadn't been any traffic this far out for hours. They hit a drift for the first time - a pothole disguised by snow - and the Toyota slewed, its rear tyres flailing, until they bit on something solid. The car lurched. O'Brian spun the wheel and brought them back on course. He laughed - 'Whoa, that was fun!' - but Kelso could tell that even he was starting to feel unsettled now. The reporter slowed the engine, switched on the headlights and shifted forwards in his seat, peering into the swirling flakes.
'Fuel's low. I'd say we've got about fifteen minutes.' 'Then what?'
'Either we head back to Archangel, or we go on and try to find some place to stay the night.'
'Oh, what? You mean a Holiday Inn?' 'Fluke, Fluke -'
'Listen, if we try to stay the night here, we'll end up staying the winter.'
'Oh, come on, man, they have to send a snow plough, don't they? Surely? At some point?'
'At some point?' repeated Kelso. He shook his head. And there would have been another row if, just then, they hadn't rounded a curve and seen, above the snow-topped trees, a smudge of smoke.
O'Brien stood in the doorway of the Toyota, leaning on the roof, staring ahead through his binoculars. It looked as if there might be a settlement of some sort, he said, about half a mile off the road, along a rough track.
He slipped back behind the wheel. 'Let's take a look.' The passage through the trees was like a tunnel, barely wide enough for a single vehicle, and O'Brian drove down it slowly. The branches clawed at them, slapping the windscreen, raking the sides of the car. The track worsened. They rocked sharply - hard left, hard right - and suddenly the Toyota plunged forwards and Kelso was thrown at the windscreen; only the seat belt saved him. The engine revved helplessly for a second, then stalled.
O'Brian turned the ignition, put the car into reverse and cautiously pressed the accelerator. The back wheels whined in the loose snow. He tried it again, harder. A howl like an animal trapped.
'Get out, could you, Fluke? Take a look.' He couldn't quite keep the edge of panic out of his voice.
Kelso had to push hard even to open the door. He jumped out and immediately sank up to his knees. The drift was axle-deep.
He banged on the back door and gestured to O'Brian to switch off the engine.
In the silence he could hear the snowflakes pattering in the trees. His knees were wet and cold. He trod awkwardly, bowlegged, through the deep drift round to the driver's door and had to dig away the snow with his gloved hands before he could drag it open. The Toyota was tilted forwards at an angle of at least twenty degrees. O'Brian struggled out.
'What'd we hit?' he demanded. He waded round to the front of the car. 'Jesus, it's like someone's dug a tank-trap. Will you look at this?'
It was indeed as if a trench had been laid across the track. A few paces further on the snow became more solid again.
'Maybe they were laying a cable or something,' said Kelso. But a cable for what? He cupped his hands above his eyes and stared through the snow towards the huddle of wooden huts about three hundred yards ahead. They didn't look as though they were connected to electricity, or to anything else. He noticed that the smoke had disappeared.
'Someone's put that fire out.