Archangel

1

The zeks were straddled in the no-man's-land between the Factory and the living zone when the helicopter landed in the vehicle park. Burdened by the presence of the M V D

Colonel in his corridors and office, Kypov had thrown himself with his old energy into the detail of the running of the camp. If prisoners were on the move then he would be there to watch. It was his skin that would be peeled if there was future slackness. Let the men watch, Kypov had determined, let them see the degradation of the returned fugitives.

The intention was based on good sense. It went unfulfilled.

The rotor-blades died, circled slowly, came to rest. The 246 parking area was lit by headlights. Uniformed men, some straining behind taut dog-leashes, ran forward.

Kypov saw Holly jump down from the helicopter.

All the zeks saw him.

All the guards saw him.

He jumped easily, landed as if on the balls of his feet. The helicopter crew had not come prepared from Saransk, they had carried no handcuffs, and Holly's wrists were free.

Holly turned back to the helicopter doorway and he reached out with his arms and steadied and then caught Adimov who was propelled out by a boot. All the zeks saw the whiteness of Adimov's feet. The guards closed round Holly.

Like a bobbing twig on a fast stream his head alone was visible amongst them, held high.

Kypov elbowed his way past the zeks and the guards. A swagger-stick was in his hand. He split open the cordon round Holly, and the swagger-stick was raised high in the air and whipped down on Holly's face. The swagger-stick rose and fell, and Adimov screamed from the blows that found his shoulder. All the zeks saw the Adjutant pull Kypov away with the hesitant force that a subordinate will exercise on his superior. Holly still carried Adimov on his back and there was blood on his cheek, and there were some at the front of the ranks of zeks who were to swear that they saw him smile, that they saw his hand lifted in a wave of salute.

Like a tidal flow the anger moaned in the lines of prisoners, splashed andbeatacrosstheguardswhogavemorerein to their dogs and backed away and lifted their rifles to the aim. But the prisoners did not cower before the guns and the dancing dogs.

Poshekhonov said, 'He showed no fear. He gave them nothing.'

Chernayev said, 'The camp has been a new place since he came. He should have been on his knees, and the bugger waved…'

Byrkin said, 'He is a leader, born to lead. In battle he would be forward of the front-line troops.'

Feldstein said, 'He could take men to hell, and he would not care if they did not return.'

There was a strange music in Kypov's ears. He heard the catcalls, the jeers, the NCOs' shouts for silence that went unobeyed.

Irina Morozova climbed down from her bunk. She slept on an upper bed, and it was beside the window, so she had a vantage-point from which she could see over the high wooden fence ringing the Women's zone. Her movements were deliberate, as if she had been struck a blow, as if she must be careful not to lose her footing. The noise of the helicopter descent had drawn her to the window. She had seen him jump down from the helicopter's door. She had not seen him again. There had only been the flash of his face as he had jumped. She felt a great wound, the misery that comes with the ending of hope.