Wicks climbed into the front of the van, followed by Fawcett. Once they were in, Wicks explained briefly the action he had taken to avoid the checkpoint.
Dubovik nodded heavily. “So it was you who caused the smash,” he said. “I guessed that it would have been, Comrade… you see, I received word that two men had held up the driver and the passengers…”
“And you made arrangements accordingly, I hope?”
“But of course!” Dubovik spat into the road-way. “The fresh papers are already being prepared. They will be excellent forgeries, and quite safe. With the papers will be authorizations from the Minister of Foreign Trade, countersigned by the KGB in Moscow, permitting you both to travel inside Russia on business for your company — Agricultural Machinery Suppliers Limited. You have been doing business in Minsk, you understand? Certain alterations in your appearance will also be made when we reach Minsk. After that I shall drive you to the railway-station and you will proceed by train, using those papers. All will be well. On arrival in Moscow you are to contact Gregor at once. He will hide you away very neatly, Comrades. For now — into the back with you, and conceal yourselves under the sacks. I do not expect to be stopped… everyone knows Dubovik… but if I am — then I shall talk my way out. There will be no more than a cursory glance in the back.”
“Even with a manhunt on and the MVD looking for anyone missing from the coach party?” Wicks asked.
Dubovik shrugged. “Even the MVD are human, and can miss something in the most thorough search… when it is made worth their while — you understand? In my pockets are many thousands of roubles, Comrade — and money talks in Russia as in the West!”
As the two men scrambled through into the back, Dubovik let in his clutch and turned the van. Then they moved ahead, rattling on for Minsk.
Sweat poured off Shaw’s face.
He had sunk farther in by now. The mud was creeping up towards his chin, its foul, fetid smell making him retch as though he must bring his gut up, but by holding his head well back he could just keep his mouth clear. He had allowed Virginia to slide down his body until her mouth was also just clear of the marsh; he couldn’t risk her on his shoulder, pressing them both farther in and her head dangled into the mud. In her new position, she gave him added surface resistance to the swamp. For ten minutes now, Shaw had been gently, very gently and with extreme care, urging his head and shoulders backward through the slime while keeping his feet in the same position as before. He was trying, in effect, to lie back on the mud, angle his stiff body backward in the hope that his head would touch firm ground. When it did he would try to hoist Virginia upward and let her slip over his shoulder until the greater part of her body was on that firm ground in their rear. Then she at least would be safe, and he hoped to be able to pull himself to safety by using her as a grip, a pivot on which to turn around.
He strained backward.
Already he had noted the absence of the searchlight, had even heard the distant shouted orders as the extended search parties had been recalled to the highway, and then the sound of heavy transport on the move. He went on working, using shoulder-movements to pull himself backward at an angle through the sucking, filthy sludge. He felt as if his very entrails were being drawn out; it was a revolting sensation, that constant downward pull from the marsh, and the feeling of “no bottom” was equally horrifying in its implications.
He went on with his backward reach desperately, his breath rasping in a throat that was sore from the foul fumes of the Pripet. It was a case of wriggling gently, millimeter by millimeter, for safety… and after centuries, as it seemed, had passed, his head at last touched that firmer ground that he knew was there. By this time, he was leaning back against the mud some thirty degrees from the vertical, and the pressure of the muddy build-up on his chest and stomach was intense and painful, squeezing the breath out of him. There was no time to waste now. With only a brief pause to get one of those labored breaths into his lungs, Shaw began pulling Virginia upward to he once again across his shoulder — only this time to slide from that shoulder back on to safe ground.
Twenty minutes after that Shaw, too, was clear. He had turned around and then hauled himself back and up by getting a firm grip on the girl’s body, pressing her into the soft ground while he used her as a kind of makeshift plank. With difficulty, he dragged his legs clear and rolled over, away from the morass. He gave himself five minutes to recover enough to get stiffly and groggily to his feet; then he bent and pulled Virginia out of the mud and half carried, half dragged, her back until they were both some twenty yards from the edge of the marsh.
Then, all in by now, he flopped to the ground beside Virginia and lay there in the pouring rain.
Virginia began to come round soon after. Once again, Shaw was holding her close to his body for warmth, though he had little enough to give. He could scarcely make out the contours of her face in the wet darkness of the Pripet, and through the heavy layers of mud, but he could see that her eyes were open and he could feel the stirring of her body and hear the altered tempo of her breathing.
Gently, he said, “It’s all right. We’re safe for now, so just take it easy.”
He could hardly hear her when she asked, “What… what happened?”
“You kept passing out,” he told her. “You must have had a pretty good knock when the coach went over and it had a delayed effect.” He outlined what had happened since, making light of the experience in the marsh. He heard her murmur something in response and then realized that she had drifted off into unconsciousness yet again, but this time, he felt, not so deeply. It was more of a sleep, a sleep which might refresh her. He had to let her have that sleep even though time was of the essence and it was passing… They had to get well clear of the Minsk area before dawn, and at first sight that looked impossible. He controlled his impatience, but half an hour later as the girl began to stir again in his arms he brought her fully awake without ceremony.
Her voice was firmer now, though there was a far-away quality in it. She asked, “What about the police? Wasn’t there a search?”
“There was a search all right,” he told her grimly, “and a thorough one, but not thorough enough… anyway, it was called off some while ago.”
She said, “That’s good.” Then, woman-like, she added, “I’m all covered with mud, I guess… I must look a mess.”
“Don’t worry about that now. This rain’ll wash some of it off, anyway. We’ve got work to do.” He paused. “First, though — the whole story. Don’t hold anything back or I’m liable to act first and think afterwards. There are just a few things I’ve got to be convinced of. Remember what you told me before you passed out?” He was aware of her lifting a hand to her face, but she took a while to answer.
“No,” she whispered, so low that once again he had to bend to catch the words. “I was feeling pretty vile, and I don’t really recall… but if I told you I was an FBI agent, then it was the truth.” There was a longer pause; the rain beat at them relentlessly. Shaw was on edge with impatience. She went on, “I can only hope you’ll take my word for it. I’ve no way of proving it… but I don’t need to tell you that, I guess.”
He nodded; agents didn’t cross frontiers with proof of their status on their persons. He said, “Suppose you are telling the truth. It doesn’t explain everything. For instance, how did you know my name — and what were you doing on Tour 37?”
“Same as you.” The voice seemed a shade stronger but there was pain behind it, as if she were talking through hard clenched teeth. “Looking for someone.”
His eyes narrowed. “Care to name him?”