Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (25 page)

He returned to his well-hidden cave under the slabs and fixed a small meal. He did not make tea. He had enough left for one more brewing, and then he must do without. Coffee was an almost forgotten luxury.

Later, when he emerged to make one last gather of fuel before sleeping, he looked down toward the highway.

There were no lights. He was turning away when he saw one set of lights moving very slowly. He paused, watching.

Something seemed to be wrong. The truck slowed and slid a little to one side, and then the lights were stationary. After a few minutes they started to move once more, barely creeping. Then the truck turned toward him and stopped. The lights went out.

Puzzled, he watched for a few minutes, then returned to his fire and his bed.

It was still dark when he awakened. The first thing he thought of was the truck.

Apparently it had been disabled. Yet that was not necessarily so. Should he go down to it? Almost anything such a truck carried might be useful to him.

Yet he might be seen. He decided not to take the risk and came down off the mountain and started east. The highway, if such it could be called, ran along the river he had crossed a few days ago. That river had taken a bend to the north, and—

He stopped again. Directly before him was a road! A dirt road of simply two parallel tracks, such as many he had seen in his own country. On that road were fresh tire tracks, two sets of them. Puzzled, he turned left, following along. He found the tracks of some small animal crossing the fresh tracks, and there were spots of oil, scarcely stiff from the cold.

The truck he had seen must have turned off the highway and come here. The second set of tire prints showed the truck returning. Wary, but curious, he followed the road but kept back in the trees.

Something dark and shadowy loomed ahead. He drew closer. A building, a tailings pile, and a track that ran out on a dump and ended there.

For a few minutes he watched. The place seemed deserted. An abandoned mine.

Why had the truck turned off the road to come here? It had not been disabled as he had thought, but simply seeking the turnoff in the darkness.

No smoke, nothing. He moved down to the nearest building, where the road ended, and peered inside.

Boxes, crates, and barrels, all neatly stacked!

He had come upon the cache of a black-marketing truck driver. Not many of the boxes and crates were alike. It was possible that the driver, either on his own or with the connivance of some others, had been loading extra boxes from a warehouse, discharging them here to be picked up by others.

Was there somebody around? Someone to guard their stolen property? Or was it sufficiently far into the wilds where none was needed?

He had learned to speak a little Russian, but read it he could not. He doubted if the few words he saw stenciled on the boxes had anything to do with the contents. Another quick look from the window showed him nothing, and with a hammer nearby he opened the nearest box.

Canned goods! He tried a second and a third. Food in most of them, and then several boxes of clothing.

Running to the windows for another quick look, he made up a bundle of both clothing and food and carried it into the forest. What he had hoped to find was a pistol and ammunition, but there was no such luck, and he had already spent enough time. Bundling the boxes back into shape, he renailed them, and wiping out what tracks he had left, he slipped away into the woods.

From first to last, he doubted if he had been in the building more than twenty minutes. As he was leaving he heard the distant sound of a truck.

Catching up his bundle he scrambled higher on the mountain. Looking back, he could see nothing of the building he had just left or any sign of the road leading to it. A truck was passing on the highway. Taking his pack, he moved back deeper into the forest and away from the highway. At dusk he stopped and building a small fire, ate better than he had for weeks. When he had eaten and his fire was down to glowing coals he looked again at the clothes he had taken. There had been no time to try on what he had found, and he had judged the coat just by laying it open on its box, but it had looked large enough. He had taken the pants that went with it, and now he tried on the coat. It was a passable fit, not good, but better than he expected. The trousers were too large in the waist, but that was no problem. A tight belt would handle that.

He packed the suit in as neat and small a package as possible and put it with the shirt Natalya had made for him. If he needed to go into a city, he was now prepared, but for one thing. He had no shoes or boots. His moccasins would attract the eyes of any who saw him.

He walked on into the forest. From the ridge where he had looked at the passing truck he had seen what appeared to be a large farm in the distance. In Yakutia, he knew, there were many large farms, and although he had passed out of that area he was apparently coming into another such.

Steadily, he worked his way east through dense forest, avoiding roads and signs of cultivation. From time to time he glimpsed people, mostly dressed in furs as he was, from what he could make out at the distance. From now on it would be more and more difficult to hide; nor could he leave traps here. Joe Mack had no desire to accidentally injure some unsuspecting person. Those who were trailing him did so at their own risk, but a trap left for them might be stumbled upon by a trapper, a hunter, or simply some wanderer in the forest.

In a thick forest of larch, he found a corner near a huge fallen tree and bedded down for rest. The hour was early, but he must travel by night. Yet he was not forgetting the tiger track he had seen.

With only his bow and quiver of arrows, he had no desire to encounter a tiger.

He was alone, and he was tired. Not physically tired, but tired of running, tired of hiding. The sky was a pale blue, the spruce a dark fringe, almost black against that sky. He stood, looking about him, wondering if it was here, in this far land, where he was to die.

What was he, anyway? Was he an Indian or a white man? And what difference did it make? His blood was Indian blood, but the world in which he lived was that of all men, having nothing to do with race or color. To exist is to adapt, and if one could not adapt, one died and made room for those who could. It was as simple as that. Beating one’s fists against the walls did no good. It was an exercise in futility.

The terrorist lives for terror, not for the change he tells himself he wants. He masks his desire to kill and destroy behind the curtain of a cause. It is destruction he wants, not creation.

A political revolution always destroys more than it creates. It had taken the Soviet Union thirty years to rebuild what the revolution had destroyed, and the government that had resulted was no different. Only the names had changed, the names of the people as well as the institutions.

He was a Sioux, and for the Sioux as for most Indians war had been a way of life. More than one Indian had said that without war they could not exist. But it had been the same for the Vikings, whose very name stood for raiding and robbery. It had been no different for the Crusaders, who masked their lust for war under the banner of a holy cause.

When the Sioux had first encountered the white man, the white man was despised. He was a trader for fur. If he was any kind of man, why did he not trap his own fur?

His people had no way of gauging the power behind the westward movement or the white man’s drive to own land, to live on the land. Only the first white men to come had been free rovers like the Indian; the rest had been settlers who came and built cabins, who plowed up the grass and planted corn.

Not until too late did the Indian realize what was happening to his country. He and many of the white men, too, bewailed the killing of the vast herds of buffalo, but where millions of buffalo roamed there were now farms that could feed half the world; there were hospitals, universities, and the homes of men.

He was a warrior of the old school. It was the life he had always wanted, the life he knew best, but he could still appreciate the changes that had taken place. Nothing ever remained the same; the one inexorable law was change.

Major Joseph Makatozi, once an athlete and flyer known as Joe Mack, walked down into the forest again, an Indian.

Thinking of what was to be or what should have been did no good now. To exist, to survive, to escape, these must be all his thought, all his wish, his only need.

This was not a war between the United States and the Soviet Union; it was a war between Colonel Arkady Zamatev and himself.

It was also a war with Alekhin, out there somewhere, searching for him and someday, somewhere, finding him.

Chapter 25

N
ATALYA BARONAS STOOD in the opening of the small, deep valley where they had found a home and looked out over Plastun Bay.

Her father came from the cabin and walked down beside her. “I wonder where he is?” she said.

Baronas shook his head. “Who knows? He is a man of the forest, you know. He does not fight it as we did. He understands it and lives with it.”

“They search everywhere. I do not see how he can escape.”

“Do you love him?”

She did not answer for several minutes, looking out across the bay, wisps of hair blowing gently in the wind. “How can I know? I do not even know what love is. I only know that I felt good when near him, lost when he went from me. I think he is a strong man. I do not know if he is wise.”

“What is wisdom?” Baronas asked. “I have often wondered, and I am not sure. Understanding of life and men, I presume. It goes beyond mere knowledge, as knowledge goes beyond information.

“Your young man has learned how to survive in one world, at least. Colonel Zamatev was unwise in not realizing he had captured something wild that could not stand being imprisoned. He is elemental, your friend. He is basic. His thoughts are simple, direct thoughts, I believe, although I do not know him well enough. I am a little afraid that when Zamatev had him captured he bought more than he bargained for. To Zamatev his action was totally impersonal. He captured a man to squeeze information from him, then to cast him aside. To Makatozi his capture was a deadly, personal insult, I believe. Something to be wiped out in blood.”

“He said he would come back. Do you think he could be so foolish?”

“It would not be foolish to him. I think your friend lives by a very simple and ancient code.” He paused, watching the gray waters of the bay. “I wonder if anyone has ever understood him? I am sure none of his fellow officers ever did. Probably they took what was on the surface as the man and looked no further. Not many men are given to study of their companions, anyway. They are concerned with themselves, their jobs, their families. Rarely do they question the motivations of their companions unless somehow it affects their own lives.”

“I liked him.”

“So did I, but I am afraid you cannot hold too long to a dream. He has gone, the odds are a million to one that he will be captured or killed or will die out in the taiga. That he could ever come back for you is almost impossible. Every inch of this coast is covered by radar and patrolled constantly.”

Baronas paused. “There is something else, however.
We
might escape.”

Surprised, she turned to look at him. “But how?”

“I do not want to raise your hopes, but the American started me thinking of escape. Until then I had only thought of existing and staying away from officials. He started me thinking of what might be done. I have said nothing because I did not want to raise hopes I could not gratify, but escape is contagious, and if your friend did nothing more he started me thinking of what might be done. We are not far from China.”

She gestured. “And Japan lies just over there.”

He shook his head. “We cannot think of the sea. We have no boat, and I know nothing of the sea or of boats. Also, there is the radar and the patrols. I was thinking of the border.”

“It is guarded.”

“Of course, but guards are men, and men have failings. Where men live, there are men who wish to live better. To live better they must have money.”

“We do not have enough.”

“What is enough? Let us think of that, and let us think of where we are, what the closest border is, and let us make some friends of the soldiers. Sometimes they are allowed to come down here to fish.”

“So?”

“We must buy a boat, a small one for fishing on the bay, and we can lend it to soldiers. Soldiers are men and they talk, especially to a pretty girl. From them we will learn how the border is patrolled, and we will listen to their gossip about their comrades and their officers. We will find which ones might be open to persuasion. We might even find a guard who would look the other way for a few minutes.”

He smiled at her. “Talya, we need not leave it all to your young man. Why should he risk his life returning for you when we can escape ourselves and meet him?”

“But how could we find him?”

“He is an officer in the Air Force. Once we are in America it can be done, I think.”

They walked back to the cabin together. “I did not tell you before, but when we were in Olga to trade our furs I saw Evgeny Zhikarev.”

“Zhikarev?
Here?
”

“We talked a little. They came asking questions. Your friend handles his skins in a special way, and it was noticed. So they began asking questions, and Evgeny has been questioned before. He fled.

“I do not know, but I suspect from things he said that he had plans for escaping across the border that did not work out. We are old friends, you know. I guessed that was the case. I also feel that he still has hopes. He is marking time, waiting for something.

“He knows a good deal about China and has friends among the Chinese. Most of the Manchurians do not like the Russians. They live in expectation of border warfare.

“I asked him many questions, and to me he talked readily about China. He has a fixation on Hong Kong, and I believe that is where he intended to go. From there, it would not be hard to get to America if we could arrange it through the American consul. I have friends there who are scholars. They would aid me, I know.”

She walked ahead of him and opened the door to the cabin. It was a small place, out of the way and so not preferred. They had rented it for a small sum. It was a cozy, two-room cabin with a fireplace, and a forest crept down the gorge behind it to provide fuel. Each time they walked outside they brought back branches fallen from the trees. Heavier stuff they cut with an axe.

Fishing was easy in the little stream that came down from the mountains, and a walk of a few hundred yards brought them down to the bay.

Living in the little cabin was easy, and the weather was much warmer than at their former home, yet they had no friends here and rarely spoke to anyone except an occasional fisherman or hunter. “What do they think of us?” Talya asked.

He shrugged. “I have let them believe I have been retired because of illness. It will not be long until some official decides to make inquiries. It is you I am worried for.”

“Then let us make our plans. Let us approach Evgeny Zhikarev again, and let us buy that boat. I am sure we can find an old one, and we have money from the furs.

“I have set traps,” she said. “There are foxes here.”

It was warm inside the cabin. She made tea, wondering about him. Where was Joe Mack now? Did he fare well? Was he warm? Was he still free? The trouble was they would never know. Such news did not travel in Russia, although with this one, about whom so much stir had been made, they might learn something. When the hunt ceased they would know he had been captured.

A few days later three soldiers came down to the river’s mouth to fish. They were very young, scarcely more than boys, and she showed them the best place to fish. Later they came to the cabin for tea. They were very reserved, even shy.

“We have tea,” one of them said. “It is part of our ration.”

“Thank you. We have to travel very far to get it. Sometimes there is none.”

“In the army we always have it,” one boy said proudly.

“But the only fish we get comes from cans,” another said. “And where I come from we always caught our own.”

They were friendly, and they soon got over their shyness. All three had not been long from home and were lonely. They were stationed at Iman, on the border.

Stephan Baronas talked to them and led them to speak of their families, their hopes. One intended to remain in the army; another planned on returning to civilian life and studying to be an engineer. He had been stationed along the new railroad that was being built and he had watched the work. He was good at mathematics, and one of the engineers had gotten him assigned to him, and he had helped while learning. His application had gone in, and his commanding officer had recommended him. His name was Bocharev, and he spoke of wanting to run the rapids on the Iman River.

“The Captain will not allow it,” one of the other boys said.

“We shall see,” Bocharev said. “I have run rapids before.”

“It is very dangerous. Only the native people do it.”

Two weeks later they came again, and this time they brought tea. Bocharev put it on the table. “You have been kind,” he said. “We have nobody to talk to.”

“Thank you,” Natalya said. They were very young, away from home for the first time.

“My father’s health is bad. He must live near the sea. He hopes one day to return to teaching.”

“My father could help,” Bocharev said. “He is an official. He has much to do with appointments. Since I went into the army he has a different job, a more important one. I do not know exactly what it is he does.”

“I am content just to rest for a while,” Baronas said. “It is very easy here. But we thank you for the tea.”

“We will come again,” Bocharev said. “You are good people.”

Two weeks later, he was dead, drowned in the rapids of the Iman.

The other boys brought them the news and more tea. “He had already gotten this for you.” He gave her a sly look. “From the commissary.”

“I am sorry,” Baronas said. “He was a fine young man.”

After they were gone, Stephan Baronas walked out on the slope to his favorite place. It was a large flat rock under some cedar with a fine view of the bay. Natalya walked out to join him.

“I could be content here,” he said, “if I could only stay, but sooner or later they will realize we do not belong here and they will realize we do not belong here and they will send us away.”

“Can we not leave before then?”

He shook his head doubtfully. “We must try. I am going down to Olga Bay to see Evgeny again. He is a very shrewd old man and might be able to help us.”

“I wonder where he is,” Natalya said. “I fear for him.”

“He would not wish it. If anyone can survive in the taiga, it is Joe Mack.” He paused. “Talya, if we can escape we must get in touch with his unit, with his commanding officer, and tell them what has happened. In that way we will know if they learn anything, and believe me, they have ways of learning, perhaps even of helping him.”

Turning, she walked back to the cabin. There was work to do, and she welcomed it. The sea had become gray, and the wind was rising. Angry surf assailed the shore, and the wind whined in the ragged pines. A storm was coming up, and the winter storms could belong and bitter. Her father left his seat on the rock and came to gather wood for the fires they would need.

He walked out under the trees and picked up fallen branches and gathered great strips of bark hanging from deadfalls, bark he would need for kindling. He broke pieces from a pine stump that would be loaded with pitch.

For the time they would be snug and warm, and they had food enough. They had grown accustomed to subsisting on very little.

Her father came in with an armful of wood to dump in the wood box. For a moment then he stood in the door looking out on the bay where the battalions of the sea marched endlessly against the shore, attacking it in ranks of foam. The wind was rising. He closed the door and went to the fire.

“I have something on the fire,” Natalya said. “It will be ready soon.”

He stared into the flames. “I hunger for books, not food,” he said. “I have so few.” He gestured toward the door. “So much is happening out there of which I know nothing. Scholars are making discoveries, writing papers, lecturing. Here, I know nothing of it. Even we in Soviet Russia know so little and miss so much.

“Knowledge is meant to be shared, and much of it is being shared. There is so much to learn, and we have so little time. When I was a young man and lived in Paris for a year…how wonderful it was! We paced the floors and walked the streets, arguing, reciting poetry to each other, discussing all the ideas, all the things that were happening. We talked of Tolstoy and Balzac, of Fielding and Cervantes! It was wonderful! We drank gallons of coffee and sometimes wine when we could afford it, and we argued about everything! Those were marvelous times!

“And then when I was older but no longer in Paris, we would meet in our own homes or sometimes in a cafe and talk of books and ideas. Even in the days when we were poor, there were always books. There were libraries, and we read everything. The mind was free to navigate any course; the world of ideas is a vast universe of unexplored worlds, and we were free to go anywhere!

“Those days are past, yet I would like to sit again with men of my kind and hear what they have done and are doing. New avenues are opening with every breath we draw. In America, in England, France, West Germany, people are free to think what they will, to write what they think!

“Russia has so much to give, yet so much to learn. We should be a part of all that instead of being confined as in a prison. I am not a Russian, yet I have lived and thought and worked so much in Russia that I feel like one. But our growth is being stunted by restrictions and rules made by idiots defending themselves against the shadows that are only in their minds!

“So many of our best dancers have fled Russian ballet for Europe or America. It is not that they love Russia less; it is simply that an art must grow. They wish to escape the cocoon of Russia and, like a butterfly, spread their wings in a larger world with greater challenges. An artist needs freedom, he needs innovation, he needs opportunity, he needs to create.”

He shook his head, embarrassed. “Talya, I talk too much! But we must escape! We must get out into a larger world where we can breathe deeper, stretch our mental muscles, and see what is happening around us.”

Somewhere back in the great forest behind them a tree crashed, blown down by the wind, a wind that roared overhead with mighty force. Fortunately, their cabin was small, solidly built, and huddled behind the rocks. Waves crashed on the shore, and at last she slept.