The telephone rang. Kypov grimaced, reached out for it, listened intently.
Rudakov watched him for a moment, then resumed his own brooding. The Political Officer was responsible for gauging the mood of the compound. It had all happened at such speed, with such fury. He was baffled. He doubted if Kypov had ever considered the prospect of mutiny. Why should he have done? Rudakov had never entertained the thought. Smart arse, wasn't he? And he'd never entertained an anxiety of mutiny.
Kypov covered over the telephone, guarding it from his voice, it's bloody Moscow… the big bastard boss from Interior…' and he was listening again and Rudakov knew the connection had been made because Kypov seemed to straighten in his chair. 'Good morning, Comrade Procurator… yes, the situation is contained. There is no chance of a break-out. I am sorry if you disagree with my decision to withdraw… I was on the spot, in the compound myself… the reinforcement troops are expected very soon… no, I have not yet identified the clique of leadership… tomorrow, you are coming, tomorrow? I am sure that by then we will have the compound returned to normal working…
Goodbye, Comrade Procurator.'
Rudakov scratched sharply at the back of his neck. 'All we wanted.'
'What troops are being sent?'
'Buggers from the far east. Regular army, none of this M V D shit.' it's not easy to get soldiers to fire on crowds.'
'They're straight off the steppes, slant eyes, they'll shoot,'
Kypov said, and the pencil in his hand was broken in two short halves.
They made a grim, halting procession out of the Kitchen.
The zeks whistled their going in derision, slow-clapped in contempt. Holly led them out.
They were the 'stoolies', and the trusties, and the
'barons'. They were the outsiders who had cheated themselves of the full rigours of the camp. They were the compromisers who had sealed their deals with the regime. Each had stood in line earlier in the morning with a faint heart, because each had believed that the second stage of rebellion would be the reprisals. Until they stood in the sharp air of the compound each one had believed he might yet be the victim of a cruel trick. And now they were outside and there was no deceit.
Holly held Mamarev's arm as they started out for the gates.
'They would have killed you this morning, you know that?' i thought I was dead.'
'When you came into the Kitchen you heard what we talked of.'
'A little.'
'You can buy your debt from me.'
'How?' Mamarev looked up at Holly, into the hard and chiselled face.
'You will say there are divisions and factions, that they are frightened of the helicopters coming, that some want to surrender but are not allowed to leave the camp.'
'That is all?'
Holly stopped thirty yards short of the gates. Everything changed beyond the gate. He could hear the revving of heavy lorries and in the distance was the throb of a helicopter engine.
'Tell them what I have told you.'
The blood was dry at Mamarev's mouth, dark and con-gealed at his nostrils. A bruise was forming on his right cheek, it was me that reported you as missing two nights ago. I informed on you.'
'On your way.'
Holly turned. He started to walk back along the line of deserters. If he heard Mamarev's shout, he gave no sign.
'Do you forgive me?'
Byrkin supervised the work.
A table-leg that was nearly a metre long was tied to ten metres of electrical wire stripped from the Kitchen ceiling, the wire was tied to another ten metres of heavy rope taken from the building Store, the rope was tied to two blankets knotted together and stripped from the bunks of the defec-tors. They had the material to make up nine lengths. The men that Byrkin had chosen had one thing in common. All had served their conscription duty in the army of the Soviet Union. It was the role of a Petty Officer to carry out orders.
Holly had given him his orders. He bustled between his chosen few, checking the strength of the joins and the coiling of the heaps of wood, wire, rope and blanket. They were the best men he could have found, and much was expected of them.
He heard the faraway engine drive of the first helicopter.
He looked out of the broken window at the back of the Kitchen. The zeks were out in the compound where they had been told to wait.
He felt a sort of happiness, a happiness he had not known since the sailing of the Storozhevoy from Riga harbour.
Mikk Laas heard the helicopter coming.
He was a blind man in his cell in the SHIzo block. He heard many sounds that were new and strange, he saw nothing. The window was high above him, beyond his reach.
He had heard shooting.
He had heard the outer door of the cell-block locked, and after that no movement of warders down the outer corridor.
He had heard the arrival of lorries with a different engine-whine to those of the commercial vehicles that visited the camp.
He kicked the cell wall.
'Who is there?' The cry of an old man without eyes.
'Adimov…'
'What is happening out there?'
'There is a mutiny, I heard the warders talk. We're better here.. .'
'Where is Holly?'
'How can I know?'
Mikk Laas crawled away across the concrete floor. He knew Holly would be in the compound. His ears told him that the lorries were bringing troops to Barashevo, that the helicopters were swarming down to Barashevo.
The Colonel General sat easily on the corner of Kypov's desk. He was a youngish man, assured and certain. A good-looking man beneath his steel battle-helmet. Kypov warmed to him, because this man did not sneer. The Colonel General talked briefly, factually, alternating the direction of his remarks between Kypov and his Political Officer.
'They're big beasts, the helicopters. Weil bring them down to three, four metres and nobody will be standing under them. You get blown flat. We'll give them a minute or so, then in with the troops. We'll split them into groups of thirty, forty, then I'll have your force in… shouldn't be a problem.'
The competence of the Colonel General encouraged Yuri Rudakov.
'I'm told there are divisions within whatever leadership they have, there is a faction that believes the thing has already gone too far. They know that the helicopters will come, I think the majority of them are scared half out of their minds.'
'What sort of prisoners does the camp hold?'
'Scum,' said Kypov decisively.
'Criminals, pretty low intelligence,' said Rudakov.
There was a knock at Kypov's door. News from the Adjutant. All four helicopters had now landed in the vehicle park. The perimeter of the tamp was secure. The storm-squad was in position behind the gates. Marksmen were in place on the Administration block roof.
'Will you be flying yourself, Colonel General?' Kypov asked.
'Of course.'
They were experienced men, the pilots of the helicopters.
They accepted this mission with an amused resignation.
They were accustomed to flying into actual or simulated machine-gun fire. They were familiar with the evasion techniques necessary against ground-to-air missiles. Their machines carried armour-plating a centimetre thick to protect the soft belly beneath their seats. Apart from his co-pilot each captain carried two machine-gunners. And they were to be used as fly-swatters. The pilots talked to each other by radio, they livened their engines, the Colonel General climbed on board. The helicopters rolled, as a drunkard on ice, and lifted.
Holly stood white-lipped in the centre of the compound.
Beyond the high wooden fence the bedlam of the helicop ters was growing. He could see Byrkin fifty yards to his right and close to the wire. Chernayev was behind him, further than fifty yards. And there were men whose names he did not know and whose faces he might not recall, and they too were beyond reach.