Kingfisher

'The kingfisher's.'

'Why did you choose that one?'

Timofey pointed past his hut into the tangle of trees. 'You cannot see it from here, but there is a stream, where no one comes, where I sit. There is the nest of a kingfisher there, and I hear her call, or that of her mate when he has need of her. It is rare for people to see that bird. Most of these swine that live here through the summer would never see one, let alone hear her. So I say that if I hear that call, and I hear it from the path that you use, then it will be you. Another bird, and I could be mistaken, or I might hear it too often. But the kingfisher is the rarity, a princess amongst them.'

'I have never seen one.'

'Because you are from the city. She is fast and swift, and she holds the initiative in her world.

None can catch her, few even see her, she is devastating in her attack. She is a lesson to the guerrilla. She is what you must strive after.'

'It is a good name, old man.'

They were walking now, close together because of the narrowness of the track, and the old man was shorter than David, bowed and shrivelled.

'Will you come again?' Timofey asked, his eyes looking up.

'I will not come again. However it goes there will be no return.'

There were no farewells, no hands shaken, no words of comfort or encouragement, just the blunt moment of parting as the old man turned back to his hut. David hurried down the track, his right hand holding the weighted package, his left shielding his face from the low, sharp hazel branches.

Remember what David had said, again and again through Isaac's mind went the phrase as he stood in the centre of the huge marble-veneered floor of the Aeroflot main offices. A bustle of people coming and going around him, and queues at the ticket counters. Just the way they had wanted it. And when it comes to the booking choose a harassed girl, one under pressure with a short temper and a willingness to be done with the business. You didn't want a girl with time to waste and questions to ask. Incredible, really, in a society like ours how people had so much time to ask questions; fear, he thought, fear is what it comes to, fear of being held responsible if there was error. A whole society so consumed with curiosity about the legalities of their fellow citizens' lives.

He had already taken the State airline's timetable and leafed through it till he came to the map that boasted the extent of the international as well as domestic routes. Take the North Sea as the outer limit, going due west. Have to be somewhere inside that orbit that they must be put down, and still be left witeh a failsafe quantity of fuel in the tanks. Must look at it analytically, that was the way he had been trained at school, and the way they were teaching him at the University.

Take a problem and search out the solution. So where to? Where to buy a ticket for?

Leningrad – no good. Equivalent distance to the centre of DDR, and he wasn't to know how much spare fuel they would carry. Would get them to Turkey, but that wasn't safe, not with a fascist military regime, same sort of people as the party here, hard to tell the difference; and they'd run the risk of being shipped back. Needed the 'liberal democracies', as David called them, where they followed the fortunes of Israel with concern, did not genuflect to the Arabs and their oil. North Europe the answer for the refuelling stop. There was a sense of frustration to his thinking that these decisions were being made now, plans that should have moulded days earlier, and would now be rushed and pressurized.

Yalta – too short, same for all the Black Sea resorts. Plenty of flights, but not enough aviation fuel.

Tbilisi – nearer, but whoever went to Georgia? And they must not have to explain the reason for their journey. Miserable, tight bastards down there and everyone in Kiev knew that. Have to explain if he wanted seats to Tbilisi.

He poised the map between his open hands again, running a finger further north. Tomsk and Novosibirsk.

Novosibirsk – opportunities there. God knows why anyone goes there, but that was an intellectual base, Science City. Perhaps a chemistry student could be going and Rebecca with her botany, and David with his working chemistry. The indicator board carried the daily arrivals and departures, covering a whole wall, the flights of the week. Nothing to those two cities for Wednesday. No to Tomsk, no to Novosibirsk, blank, nothing. Disappointment and back to the map.

Tashkent – a flight to Tashkent tomorrow. Flight on Wednesday. 1600 hours, the sort of time they wanted, could have finished their plans by then… but if they had three hours to play with, if Moses gave them that long, and he'd sworn and cursed at Moses when he should have prayed for him, prayed for strength for him. More than two thousand miles to Tashkent, way beyond the distance they needed. Fuel for more than five hours, take them into Europe, into the West. But down into Tashkent, where the flight was rooted, what papers would you need for that? Didn't know. It had been his plan, his idea, the whole thing and the others had accepted it, and he didn't know the answers, and had no way of finding them, only at the counter, only at the ticket counter.

Cannot apply logic to regulations, either know the answer or you are ignorant.

He joined the queue to one of the central counters, heavy traffic, more than at the extremes of right and left. Funny how people sought the centre where the delays would be greater.

Conformity. Five, ten minutes slipping by, and time for him to sum up the girl in the dowdy blue uniform behind the counter. Customers in front of him being satisfied, queue lengthening behind him. Soon there was only one more man in front – heavy suit of a Party worker. Perhaps he wasn't, but Isaac reckoned anybody who wore a heavy suit when it was hot was a Party worker, status in showing they had the clothes. Sweat was running down the man's neck on to his collar: so much for the gesture of superiority.

An argument. The man wanted Moscow. She said it was full for two days. He showed her his papers, his documentation and his cards, but she replied by saying it didn't make a damn of difference, that everything was full, although he could go to the airport and try his luck there.

Isaac realized that the man couldn't be that important, meant he didn't qualify by his rank for the tickets kept back for senior Party officials on all flights. Everyone knew about that.

The girl's cheeks were flushed, and she was looking round her for support when she caught Isaac's eyes, and his wink, the lowered lid, was acknowledged. Isaac saw her stifle a giggle and return her gaze to the man whose voice was now raised.

There would be trouble for her, a complaint to the responsible person. His department would lodge a protest at the highest level. What was her name? Blatant obstruction of an official. And he left his place at the counter.

Isaac said, 'I'd like to book three for tomorrow, to Tashkent, student fare, coming back fourteen days from tomorrow. I'd like to go on tomorrow afternoon's flight, return Wednesday fortnight. If it's possible?' and he smiled, boyish, intimate… 'silly old fool. You handled him well-you'll not hear from him again.' His right hand had moved from his hip pocket, engulfing the fifty roubles of notes, and the fist opened among the papers in front of her, tickets, timetables, price charts, and without taking her eyes from him she covered the notes, faded and worn, with her booking pad.

She didn't reply, just picked up her desk telephone – computer not working again-and was talking into it; Isaac waiting for the verdict.

Still holding the phone she asked for the names, and when they had been given to her she repeated them into the receiver, spelling them out letter by letter. It seemed to take a lifetime. She said 'priority', and grinned at him; not bad looking, Isaac thought, but someone should do something about her teeth. He smiled back.