who she was meeting and what she had come to find. She would have to lose them once the bus reached Sevastopol – unless she lost them before her destination. Above all she had to protect the courier, their link with the agent. But that was twelve hours away over the long slow bus route to and then across the Crimea.
The seats were small and the bus full. She was squeezed on the window side next to a man in a thick padded jacket and workman’s boots. He fell asleep almost immediately. On the seats directly across the aisle were two plump women. She guessed from their rural appearance that they came from a village along the way. They talked purposefully to one another, never pausing. She didn’t look behind at anyone else seated on the bus. For a while she pretended to doze, but she remained alert for any movement in the aisle. Time stood still.
The bus climbed and descended the undulating land, stopping at a few villages and sometimes out in the middle of nowhere, until they reached Nikolayev. There was a stop for fifteen minutes and Anna watched the two women, but while one or two passengers boarded or got off the bus the two women stayed where they were, chatting endlessly. Then they set off again, across the Roskovsky Straits at Kherson. There was another stop there and then another stop and another leg to the bridge on to the Crimea at Krasnoperekopsk. As they entered the Crimea, they were about two-thirds of the way to Sevastopol.
After nearly two hours beyond the city of Krasnoperekopsk, and now well into the Crimea, the bus pulled into a service station at a remote crossroads that served as a stop. They would have the usual fifteen minutes, the driver said. There was a grim-looking café and a couple of pumps. The two women across the aisle from her picked up half a dozen heavy plastic bags and made for the door. It was their stop, she realised.
Anna put on her backpack and got off the bus quickly in order to catch up with the slow-moving women. They were now walking in a waddling motion from side to side with the weight of their bags. They were still talking without pause. A change of plan, Anna decided, a change of mind. That was a sign of intelligence, to be able to change your mind. When she drew level with the women, she smiled at them and offered to carry some of their bags. The women were struggling to keep hold of everything.
‘I’ve come to visit my grandmother,’ she said.
As she took three of the bags she still didn’t look behind her. She would leave them to guess whether or not she was aware of their presence.
Around the rear of the service station, there was an ancient pick-up with peeling dark red paint, where the bare metal itself wasn’t showing through. It had its engine running for warmth. One of the two women indicated that the truck was where they were going. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat, Anna now saw – a brother, a husband, perhaps? ‘Where are you going?’ Anna asked.
‘Voronki,’ one of the women replied.
‘I’m going to Vihogradovo,’ Anna said.
‘It’s not on our way, dear,’ the second woman replied.
‘Perhaps you could give me a ride to the Vihogradovo road?’
The women didn’t know.
The man in the driver’s seat didn’t get out or offer to help. The women opened the passenger door and put their bags in first, then one of them began to climb in ponderously over the high sill of the truck.
‘I’m going to the Vihogradovo road,’ Anna said to the driver.
He shrugged. ‘These women take up all the room.’ They were squeezed on to a double seat next to the driver.
‘I can sit in the truck bed.’
He stared at her.
‘I’m here to visit my grandmother. She’s dying.’
‘We’re all dying,’ the man said.
‘Not so quickly, I hope,’ she replied.
He didn’t take his eyes away from hers. ‘You want to sit in the rain?’ he said as though he couldn’t care less. Then he shrugged again. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said and looked
The seats were small and the bus full. She was squeezed on the window side next to a man in a thick padded jacket and workman’s boots. He fell asleep almost immediately. On the seats directly across the aisle were two plump women. She guessed from their rural appearance that they came from a village along the way. They talked purposefully to one another, never pausing. She didn’t look behind at anyone else seated on the bus. For a while she pretended to doze, but she remained alert for any movement in the aisle. Time stood still.
The bus climbed and descended the undulating land, stopping at a few villages and sometimes out in the middle of nowhere, until they reached Nikolayev. There was a stop for fifteen minutes and Anna watched the two women, but while one or two passengers boarded or got off the bus the two women stayed where they were, chatting endlessly. Then they set off again, across the Roskovsky Straits at Kherson. There was another stop there and then another stop and another leg to the bridge on to the Crimea at Krasnoperekopsk. As they entered the Crimea, they were about two-thirds of the way to Sevastopol.
After nearly two hours beyond the city of Krasnoperekopsk, and now well into the Crimea, the bus pulled into a service station at a remote crossroads that served as a stop. They would have the usual fifteen minutes, the driver said. There was a grim-looking café and a couple of pumps. The two women across the aisle from her picked up half a dozen heavy plastic bags and made for the door. It was their stop, she realised.
Anna put on her backpack and got off the bus quickly in order to catch up with the slow-moving women. They were now walking in a waddling motion from side to side with the weight of their bags. They were still talking without pause. A change of plan, Anna decided, a change of mind. That was a sign of intelligence, to be able to change your mind. When she drew level with the women, she smiled at them and offered to carry some of their bags. The women were struggling to keep hold of everything.
‘I’ve come to visit my grandmother,’ she said.
As she took three of the bags she still didn’t look behind her. She would leave them to guess whether or not she was aware of their presence.
Around the rear of the service station, there was an ancient pick-up with peeling dark red paint, where the bare metal itself wasn’t showing through. It had its engine running for warmth. One of the two women indicated that the truck was where they were going. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat, Anna now saw – a brother, a husband, perhaps? ‘Where are you going?’ Anna asked.
‘Voronki,’ one of the women replied.
‘I’m going to Vihogradovo,’ Anna said.
‘It’s not on our way, dear,’ the second woman replied.
‘Perhaps you could give me a ride to the Vihogradovo road?’
The women didn’t know.
The man in the driver’s seat didn’t get out or offer to help. The women opened the passenger door and put their bags in first, then one of them began to climb in ponderously over the high sill of the truck.
‘I’m going to the Vihogradovo road,’ Anna said to the driver.
He shrugged. ‘These women take up all the room.’ They were squeezed on to a double seat next to the driver.
‘I can sit in the truck bed.’
He stared at her.
‘I’m here to visit my grandmother. She’s dying.’
‘We’re all dying,’ the man said.
‘Not so quickly, I hope,’ she replied.
He didn’t take his eyes away from hers. ‘You want to sit in the rain?’ he said as though he couldn’t care less. Then he shrugged again. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said and looked
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