‘They were fortunate to find me working so early,’ the other replied. ‘And luckier still that I let them in. The museum doesn’t really open until 8.30, you see. But since they were obviously in a hurry . . .‘ He smiled and shrugged.
‘So I’ve missed them by . . . how much?’ Dolgikh put on a disappointed expression.
The curator shrugged again. ‘Oh, ten minutes, maybe. But at least I can tell you where they went.’
‘I would be very grateful, Comrade,’ Dolgikh told him, following him into his private rooms.
‘Comrade?’ The curator glanced at him, his eyes bright and seeming to bulge behind the dense glass of his spectacles. ‘We don’t hear that term too much down here on the border, so to speak. Might I inquire who you are?’
Dolgikh presented his KGB identification and said, ‘That makes it official. Now then, I’ve no more time to waste. So if you’ll just tell me what they were looking for and where they went. .
The curator no longer beamed, no longer seemed happy. ‘Are they wanted, those men?’
‘No, just under observation.’
‘A shame. They seemed pleasant enough.’
‘One can’t be too careful these days,’ said Dolgikh. ‘What did they want?’
‘A location. They sought a place at the foot of the mountains called Moupho Aide Ferenc Yaborov.’
‘A mouthful!’ Dolgikh commented. ‘And you told them where to find it?’
‘No,’ the other shook his head. ‘Only where it used to be — and even then I can’t be sure. Look here.’ He showed Dolgikh a set of antique maps spread on a table. ‘Not accurate, by any means. The oldest is about four hundred and fifty years old. Copies, obviously, not the originals. But if you look there’ — he put his finger on one of the maps — ‘you’ll see Kolomyya. And here —,
‘Ferengi?’
The curator nodded. ‘One of the three — English, I believe — seemed to know exactly where to look. When he saw that ancient name on the map, “Ferengi”, he grew very excited. And shortly after that they left.’
Dolgikh nodded, studied the old map very carefully. ‘It’s west of here,’ he mused, ‘and a little north. Scale?’
‘Roughly one centimetre to five kilometres. But as I’ve said, the accuracy is very suspect.’
‘Something less than seventy kilometres, then,’ Dolgikh frowned. ‘At the foot of the mountains. Do you have a modern map?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the curator sighed. ‘If you’ll just come this way…’
Fifteen miles out of Kolomyya a new highway, still under construction, sped north for Ivano-Frankovsk, its tarmac surface making for a smooth ride. Certainly to Krakovitch, Quint and Gulharov the ride was a delightful respite, following in the wake of their bumpy, bruising journey from Bucharest, through Romania and Moldavia. To the west rose the Carpathians, dark, forested and brooding even in the morning sunlight, while to the east the plain fell gently away into grey-green distance and a far, hazy horizon.
Eighteen miles along this road, in the direction of Ivano-Frankovsk, they passed a fork off to the left which inclined upwards directly into misty foothills. Quint asked Gulharov to slow down and traced a line on a rough map he’d copied at the museum. ‘That could be our best route,’ he said.
‘The road has a barrier,’ Krakovitch pointed out, ‘and a sign forbidding entry. It’s disused, a dead end.’
‘And yet I sense that’s the way to go,’ Quint insisted.
Krakovitch could feel it too: something inside which warned that this was not the way to go, which probably meant that Quint was right and it was. ‘There’s grave danger there,’ he said.
‘Which is more or less what we expected,’ said Quint. ‘It’s what we’re here for.’
‘Very well.’ Krakovitch pursed his lips and nodded. He spoke to Gulharov, but the latter was already slowing down. Up ahead the twin lanes narrowed into one where a construction gang worked to widen the road. A steam roller flattened smoking tarmac in the wake of a tar spraying lorry. Gulharov turned the car about-face and, at Krakovitch’s command, brought it to a halt.
Krakovitch got out, went to find the ganger and speak to him. Quint called after him, ‘What’s up?’