As the sun rose over the mountains, the yellow-brown desert abruptly gave way to yellow-green cultivation. They rode downhill through the welcome shade of a peach orchard, emerging onto a dusty track that ran between fields of golden grain. A mile ahead the river lay on the green swathe like a red-brown snake. On its far bank, the buff-colored houses of Kerki were spread across a line of low hills, and beyond these the desert reasserted its sway.
Another beautiful day, McColl thought. Perhaps his last, but probably not. There were many obvious questions to which Komarov would still want answers.
“So much for impassable deserts,” the Russian muttered beside him.
The Amu Dar’ya, here about three hundred yards wide, posed more of a problem. The ferry-raft was berthed on the other bank, and it took three rounds from Maslov’s revolver to roust out the operator. Once alerted he stared across at their party, vigorously scratched his head, and disappeared back into his house. Minutes dragged by, and Maslov’s finger was tightening on the trigger once more when the ferryman emerged with what looked like three sons, arranged in descending order of height.
They pushed out from the far bank, pulling the guide ropes free of the water’s surface as they did so.
The raft proved larger than it had at first appeared, easily accommodating both humans and ponies. The ferryman was clearly curious, but Komarov met his questions with discouraging grunts. The current was smooth and powerful.
Across the river they could see a wooden landing stage and, behind it, set back from the embarkation area, the ubiquitous chaikhana. On the latter’s right, there was a long wooden building, which one of the soldiers said was the town barracks. Between the two buildings, a road led steeply up to a half-ruined fortress. Red flags fluttered on the two towers that flanked its entrance gate; staring up at the battlements, McColl caught the flash of sun on glass.
Komarov was more interested in the barracks, which looked ominously quiet. “Ask him how many soldiers are stationed here,” he instructed McColl.
“About fifty,” was the initial reply, “when they’re here,” the unfortunate caveat.
“Ask him where they are.”
They were out chasing the Basmachi.
It was the first time McColl had heard Komarov swear.
The ferry was halfway across the river. As two men issued from the fortress gates and started down the hill, half a dozen soldiers appeared from behind the barracks and hurried toward the landing stage, most still arranging their dress. By the time the ferryman had pulled his craft alongside the landing stage, the soldiers had turned themselves into a ramshackle guard of honor, lining each side of the ramp and channeling the new arrivals into the welcoming arms of the officials from the fortress. One of these, to McColl’s amazement, was bedecked in a full-length leather coat, the sort that even stylish Chekists usually kept for winter. The other was a woman, and a handsome one at that. She was probably in her forties, and her eyes sparkled with an intelligence that seemed lacking in her male superior.
The man in the leather coat was the chairman of the Kerki Soviet. “How many men have you got?” Komarov asked while they were still shaking hands.
“These,” the chairman said, airily indicating the now-at-ease guard of honor. He was a Pathan, McColl thought, or maybe a Tajik. “You’ll take tea?” the man was asking Komarov.
“Tea? Oh, yes, I suppose so.”
“This way, comrade.”
They were led into the chaikhana garden, where a line of iron bedsteads topped with mattresses gave the usual impression of an open-air hospital. The woman disappeared into the building and shouted at someone.
“We have news,” the chairman announced importantly, once they had all sat down. “The Red Turkestan should be here sometime this afternoon.”
“How do you know this?” Komarov asked, obviously surprised.
“We have an airplane. Since the message arrived from Samarkand, our pilot has flown down the river each day and kept track of their progress.”
“Is the airplane armed?” Komarov asked.
“No.”
“A pity. But perhaps we could use it to drop explosives.”
The chairman looked uncomfortable. “I regret to say that we have run out of fuel. The pilot barely had enough for his last return flight.”
Komarov buried his nose in his hands. “When are the troops due back?”
A shrug. “Who knows? The garrison commander is a fool.”
“Probably not for several days,” the woman said, rejoining them.
“Twelve men,” Komarov muttered.
It was enough for Jesus, McColl thought flippantly. He sipped at the hot, sweet tea, staring up at the serried ranks of mud houses climbing the hill. He had the strange feeling that he was seeing Asia for the first time.
Maslov proved more oblivious to their surroundings. “What shall I do with the Englishman?” he asked Komarov, as if McColl were a piece of shopping they’d just brought home.
“There’s a lockable room in the barracks,” the woman said, eyeing McColl for the first time.
“That’ll do,” Komarov told Maslov.
As he was led away, McColl took a look downriver. There was no sign of the expected riverboat, but his ears picked up the faintest echoes of distant gunfire. It might have been hunters or the town’s absent troops trading fire with a band of Basmachi. Or maybe his one indisputable enemy, only a few hours away.
Piatakov watched the passengers wade ashore, still grumbling loudly. They didn’t know how lucky they were. Farther upstream a battle was waiting for the Red Turkestan, and thanks to him they were going to miss it. Brady had considered keeping them aboard as a disincentive to artillery, but had been won over by Piatakov’s counterargument that too many strangers would get in their way.
He went back to constructing a makeshift breastplate for the machine gun. Having already taken the cargo-space doors off their hinges, he lashed them to either side of the mounting to give himself some extra protection. It had already been decided that he would man the gun and that Chatterji’s first responsibility was looking after captain and bridge. Brady would go wherever he was needed.
The American was full of confidence, and Piatakov was inclined to feel the same. The captain had cheerfully warned them that Kerki had a sizeable garrison and that the river there was appreciably narrower, but as long as the ship didn’t run aground, it would certainly take some stopping. As Piatakov had discovered on the Volga, boarding a moving ship in the face of hostile fire was a daunting prospect for even the best-trained troops, and there wouldn’t be many of those out here in the middle of nowhere.
In Kerki the morning passed slowly. McColl had been shut in an officer’s room; it contained a bed, a cupboard, one pitted enamel bowl, and two books: The ABC of Communism and a volume of Pushkin’s verse. The door was not locked—to Maslov’s chagrin the key could not be found—and only a single soldier was presently standing guard outside, making escape to the nearby border a highly feasible proposition.
Yet here he still was. It might have been foolish—it almost certainly was—but he couldn’t bring himself to hightail it over the hill at this stage of the proceedings. It would be like leaving a nickelodeon with the heroine still in the villain’s grasp or walking out of Ibrox with Rangers and Celtics tied in the final minutes and a penalty kick about to be taken. He would slip away only when he knew that she was safe and that the final result was no longer in doubt.