“I’ll have a breather, then go on,” said Maga. “You stay here.” There were several spades and a tall stack of firewood. The floor was strewn with straw. “Shame we can’t make a fire,” said Maga. “Still, I shan’t be long – we’re practically there.” Left alone, Viktor tried to sleep, but without much success. Day was breaking, but only dimly through the dirty window. The gale was shut out. Uncomfortable on his seat of firewood, he kept going to the door and peering out, seeing no more than a wooden fence and trees beyond. Trying to make himself comfortable on the floor, he felt something dig into him, and reaching into the straw and wood chippings encountered the ice cold though heavily greased metal of a Kalashnikov, and exploring further, the rough casing of hand grenades. * “Still there?” came Maga’s voice. Viktor let him in. “All’s well! You’re sold into slavery! We can go, they’re expecting you.” “How do you mean, slavery?” “It’s the way they put it here.
