Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (34 page)

“Expect me,” he said, and hobbled away along the street.

Iman! It was right on the river! If he could not wangle some way to cross the border to make their deal, he would be surprised. This was it, his great chance. He must be careful not to betray himself to his cousin or his family.

There was always the risk, too, that the truck would be stopped and inspected. There were few roads and they were watched, although carelessly.

When he stepped into the house his cousin was waiting for him, along with his wife and their son, their faces stern.

“Evgeny Ivanovich,” his cousin said, “I must ask you to leave this house.”

Evgeny Zhikarev tried to look startled. “Leave? Why?”

“We have just heard it. You are to be arrested. The KGB looks for you. We cannot afford—”

“Of course,” he said, and waved a hand. “I shall leave at once. I would not wish you to be troubled because of me. I did not know, but—”

They had expected trouble. They had expected argument, pleading. They were both astonished and overjoyed.

“Please. Think no more about it. You are my own cousin. You have a wife, a family! However,” he paused, “if you could make up a little bundle? Some food? Anything to keep me alive?”

“Of course! Sonya?”

She bustled about while he gathered his few things. This was easy, almost too easy. So they knew of the order for his arrest? Where were the KGB then? Or was it GRU? He must be careful, and if he could get away, it would be none too soon.

“But how—?” said his cousin.

He put a finger to his lips and looked sly. “I know a fisherman! A good man! He will take me up the coast to Magadan.”

At midnight, when the truck drew alongside, he was ready to move from the dark doorway where he waited.

He heard it rumbling over the pavement before it reached him, and he was prepared. Despite his crippled feet, he moved quickly when the door opened. He scrambled in, and the truck roared off before he was fairly seated.

“I am taking a risk, my friend,” the driver said. “For anyone else I’d not do it, but we have made a bit together, you and I, and perhaps again, but now they search for you. I’d be arrested if they found you in my truck, so keep low and sit well back. The fewer who see you the better.”

“You have heard something?”

“They look for you. Look everywhere.” The driver glanced at him. “They must think you important.”

“It is the American, the one they search for. Maybe some of the furs I bought were trapped by him. At least, that is what they think. I know nothing! I never saw the man! Some of the furs—well, let us say they were
different
. Let us say I recognized a strange hand. But know? I knew nothing. I know nothing! I do not wish to be questioned, that is all.”

“Is Iman good for you, then? I hope so. I can’t risk taking you further.”

“You say Potanin is there?”

“He is. We did some business. Oh, just a little bit! But he is hungry, that one! He has found a woman, and she makes demands! If you have a proposition, I promise you he will listen.”

The truck rumbled on, climbing a steep, winding road. Evgeny Zhikarev leaned back and closed his eyes, praying to an almost forgotten God. “Please, dear God! Just this once! Let me escape them! Let me cross the river into China! I haven’t the strength anymore!” He whispered it in his mind, praying, fearful of what lay ahead and of what came from behind.

The dark walls of the forest closed down. Thank God he was not out there, walking that dark forest in the snow!

Where could the American be? How could he escape them? As a boy he had traveled through the dismal forests of fir in the urman, or taiga, in western Siberia. He had been frightened, terribly frightened of the bears, although he had never seen one. And in the eastern forests, he had been afraid of the tigers, and he had seen one take a woman from a field.

There were tigers here, in this forest. He spoke aloud, saying that, and the driver nodded. “Saw one my last trip. Big fellow, standing in the road when my lights caught him. He wasn’t afraid, either! Not afraid of me or the truck. He crouched, and for a moment I thought he was going to jump right over the lights at me. I swerved, almost skidded off the road, but when I got the truck straightened out he was gone!”

They rumbled on into the night and Zhikarev slept, awakened, and slept again.

Once, atop a ridge, they stopped, and the driver awakened him. He had a thermos of tea. “Here! You can share!”

“A thermos?”

The driver gave him a knowing smile. “I do good business and with the right people. I can get anything! Anything at all!” He patted the wheel. “That’s what this does for me! I have a truck and I can move! Everybody wants something! Even the leaders! Believe me, if I stopped driving, a lot of people would suffer! They are all on the take! Everyone!”

“Even Zamatev?”

The driver shook his head. “Not him! Nobody can touch him! Offer a bribe and you find yourself in a labor camp! He has plans, that one! I can see it in him! He thinks he will be very big someday and wants nobody hanging to his coattails reminding him he owes them favors!”

He drove on in silence. “Don’t ever cross him. Take it from me, he’ll have you hunted down and killed! It has happened! When he was on the way up, there was a man who knew him, saw him show cowardice, and spoke of it. That man disappeared.

“Gone! Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Everybody is afraid of him! He has big ears! If anyone breathes in Magadan, he hears it in Yakutsk!”

The truck slowed. “Look! Somebody walking! And we are fifty miles from a town! Well, of all things! It is a
woman
!”

She turned toward them. “Stop the truck,” Zhikarev said. “I know her.”

Chapter 34

J
OE MACK LAY on a ridge under a wind-wracked cedar, its gnarled and twisted branches almost as thick as the trunk. It was an old, old cedar, over which many cold winds had blown, but now nothing stirred on the ridge, and Joe Mack lay quietly on the cold ground.

Not far away, there was a drift of snow, and it showed a little darkness along its lower, southern edge, where some melting had begun.

Spring was coming, and thus far he had survived the winter. His eyesight, always excellent, seemed to have improved with use. Now he could see, far away, the smoke of a fire. Nothing moved that he could see, for the distance was too great, but men were there, men who were hunting him.

Somewhere out there was Alekhin, and Alekhin was a tracker. A man of his skills could eventually find almost any trail. He was cunning. He had trailed wolves, as well as men, and would know every trick of the wilderness. Yet there were some worth trying. What he needed most of all was a good, safe hideout. Once in such a place he could remain still, and if he made no tracks he would leave none. He could just wait them out.

For that he must have a place with a water supply. He must have meat enough to survive for weeks if need be.

They were coming in force and the search would be thorough, yet it was Alekhin he feared, Alekhin or the chance discovery of some blundering soldier who just happened upon him.

Down below there where the soldiers would be coming, their walking channeled by the country itself, he had taken the time to prepare some traps. These men would not be the same as those others, so he had used some of the same devices.

At a place where a wide step was needed to cross a small stream, he had left some sharp stakes hidden by leaves and snow. A man taking the long step necessary to step over the stream would drive his foot into the angled stake, placed to receive him.

At other points he had arranged cords made of roots to trip a follower and a sharpened stake to meet him when he fell. He had also arranged some deadfalls of heavy logs. None of these would stop pursuit, but they would arouse caution and slow the soldiers down, make them less eager to try to find him.

At another point, a natural lookout into the canyon, he had undermined a flat rock slab and then propped it in place. A quick step and the slab would fall into the canyon, taking whoever stepped on it.

The canyon he had reached was either that of the Kolyma or the Indigirka, and he suspected the latter, although his map was not clear enough, considering what little he knew of the country. But the canyon was at least a mile deep and probably more. It was wild, lonely, and picturesque. Now to find a place to hide.

Joe Mack was familiar with canyons. He had spent time in both the Snake River and the Salmon River canyons in Idaho, deeper canyons than those of the Colorado. He had spent months wandering their few trails, climbing down their rock walls, taking refuge in caves.

He found himself on a high, wild plateau, swept by icy winds. There were scattered cedars, very little snow, and much broken rock, as well as scattered boulders and uptilted slabs. Careful to step on no fallen sticks, he moved across the flat rock, working his way toward the edge of the canyon itself. Fortunately, he had time.

From a projecting ledge, he studied each side of the canyon, and far down, perhaps a thousand feet from the top, he saw a small cluster of cedar among a grove of aspen. The trees seemed to be growing on a level area. A small waterfall dropped off the side nearby. As the air was very clear, he knew the place was farther away than it appeared to be. To the usual eye it was but one of many outcrops where trees had found a lodging.

He moved slowly ahead, searching for animal tracks. Soon he found those of a goral and followed them. They wandered off into the forest, and he looked for others. Finally, he found what he wanted, the tracks of a mountain goat and later those of a small bear. Their trail followed a narrow, tree-clad ridge until they suddenly dropped off into a snow-choked hollow. He followed, and then going around a huge old cedar, the tracks dropped over the edge of the cliff. He could see the river, running with white water, a good two thousand feet lower. The path was narrow, and he edged along carefully, facing the rock for a dozen yards at a time, clinging to mere fingerholds. When he could glance down, he saw fringes of ice in some of the tiny coves, but the river itself was unfrozen.

Twice he crossed small open areas scattered with trees, picked up the trail again, and worked his way further along. Twice he went across acres of scattered rock fallen from the peaks and cliffs above. Then through a crevasse, along the bottom of which water trickled. Then ducking under a projection of rock, he emerged on the cliff face once more. For a moment he stood there, scanning the rim opposite and the sky; then he looked back to the vantage point from which he had chosen his destination.

Nothing. Nobody in sight. He edged out on the trail, but found he could walk easily. The edge was perilously close, but he had spent much of his boyhood in such places.

When he came to the area he was seeking, just on the chance it would provide what he wanted, he found himself almost cut off by the rushing stream that provided the waterfall he had seen.

Searching, he found a place where he could cross, and soon he was standing in a small hanging valley, its walls covered with stone pine and cedar, its basin half choked with aspen. But there were two little meadows and a small pond, marshy at the near edge. The marshy part was still frozen and covered with scattered snow.

The little valley comprised no more than forty acres and seemed to offer no way out that he could see, yet there was nearly always a way, if one had the patience to look and the skill at climbing.

There were many tracks of both deer and mountain goats, most of them fresh. He killed a ptarmigan at the edge of the pond and began searching for a place to camp. They might find him here, but he doubted it.

Alekhin, if he was around? Well, maybe.

Nowhere could he find any evidence of previous visits. He killed a mountain goat and skinned it out, taking what meat he wanted. Most of all, he wanted the hide, for his vest was sadly worn from the rough treatment, and the pelage of the mountain goat is the softest and warmest of any animal in the north country. When he had the meat and the hide, he went to the farthest end of the hanging valley, around a small bend that offered complete concealment. There he built a fire and roasted some of the meat. Sitting by the fire, he studied his surroundings. He must find a place in which to shelter himself, but he must also find an escape route if one existed. Studying the sides of the valley, heavily forested, he decided he might climb through the forest, pulling himself tree by tree up the forbidding cliff.

The hide of the mountain goat he had taken needed work, and he began it as soon as he had eaten, scraping the inside of the hide clean. The hair was pure white, or so it seemed until matched with snow, and then it took on a creamy-white color. With some of the leather remaining from an earlier kill of an elk, he cut out a pair of moccasins to replace the worn ones he wore.

From where he worked he could see the end of the trail down which he had come. It was partly obscured by aspens growing out of the side of the cliff, trees that had been bent down by a weight of snow, now melted or blown away. He had seen several such places on his way along the cliff face.

Huddling over his small fire, he thought out his plan for those trees, knowing what he must do and thinking how best to do it. He had rigged many snares for wild animals, often using spring pole snares. This would be a variation. He had to fight with what he had.

Where now was Natalya? Did they still live in the makeshift village where he had discovered them? Or had they already begun their trek to Plastun Bay or its vicinity? And how could he ever live up to his promise to get them out?

The buffer zone extended all along that coast, and any plane attempting to penetrate it would be shot down. The Soviets had already shown their readiness to shoot down even an innocent passenger plane if it accidentally invaded their airspace. Yet he would find a way. Somehow he would find a way.

A cold wind blew down the raw-backed ridges, and a faint sifting of blown snow came down, icy particles that stung the skin. He went back into the trees and pulled deadfalls together to make a crude shelter, gathering boughs for a bed. The sky above was amazingly clear; the stars seemed to hang like bright lamps just above the canyon’s edge. Far below, he could hear the roar of the water, but a distant sound.

If he made no tracks he would leave no tracks. He would, if possible, stay right here for several days, but first he must find an escape route, and he must be prepared for planes or helicopters flying over.

These canyons were wild, almost completely unexplored except by a few passing hunters, and since coming to the area he had seen no signs of man, nothing at all.

At daybreak he went back up the narrow trail down which he had come, scarcely a trail at all, just a route along the cliffs, moving from ledge to ledge. Finding a place where the aspen grew almost horizontally from the bank, he selected one and drew it back, hauling on it until it was bent like a bow. Fastening it there with a trigger to be released by a trip string across the trail, he concealed the trip as much as possible and stepped back to survey it. The young aspen, drawn taut, would be released by the trip string and would swing around like a whip, knocking a man from the trail into the canyon if it did not break his neck or crack his skull.

A mountain goat using the same trail, if it tripped the release, would pass safely beneath it.

Spring came quickly in this northern land and disappeared just as quickly, yet it was weeks away even though here and there ice was melting briefly during the day, only to freeze again at night.

Carefully, foot by foot, he explored the little valley. When he found the escape route he sought, it was wild animals that showed him the way, as he had expected. At the back end of the place where he had built his fire, there was a hollow choked with a thick stand of birch. The animal track skirted it along the rock wall and then dipped down through a mere crack, descending steeply into a rock-walled hollow where he found an overhang with a crude rock parapet of fitted stones, obviously very ancient. Some man or men had taken shelter here in some bygone age. No signs of fire were on the floor of the overhang, these having long since turned to dust. Overhead there were smoke-blackened rocks.

Following the narrow animal trail further, he found that it branched, one branch going up, the other down. This had been, he decided, a trail used by whoever had built the shelter. In places, sections of it had fallen away into the void below; in others, rocks from above had almost blocked the trail, but it led to the top of the plateau. Perceiving this from some distance, he went no nearer, so as to leave no tracks where they might be seen. The trail seemed to emerge in a small grove of birch, several of them having grown up in the trail itself. Retreating, he prepared several traps, which he would remember but which might deal with anyone venturing to explore the area.

For four days then he ate, slept, and searched out the area. It was possible, he discovered, to climb through the forest on the mountainside to a ledge above his hanging valley, and from there a steep path, used by mountain goats, led down into the depths of the canyon.

On the fifth day a plane flew over the mountains, a small plane that could fly very slowly, searching the terrain. Joe Mack remained hidden, watching it, thankful he had been wise enough never to walk the same route twice and so to leave no tracks that could be seen. The search was on now, so no matter how cold, there must be no fires.

The search would be on the ground as well, and undoubtedly they had some kind of a lead to bring them here. It could be mere routine, but he did not believe so.

He worked on making moccasins and preparing a coat from his goatskin.

He doubted they would find how he had come to this place or even realize it existed. Flying over, it was just one more narrow place in the rock walls of the canyon, choked with trees. There would be many such, some reachable, some not. Back in Idaho he had seen old mines and cabins clinging to walls that seemed completely inaccessible. So it must be here. But there was nothing in this place to draw attention.

He would remain quiet for another three or four days, possibly longer. Impatience would be his greatest enemy, although he still had far to go.

Could he make it in the short time of warmth? The ice in the rivers usually broke up in April and by the end of August would be freezing again, or could be. There seemed no way he could cover the vast stretch of country before him in the short time available, especially as the country would be increasingly more open, with much tundra and no cover. At least, there was not much cover until he reached the Anadyr Mountains. Somehow he must cross the Kolyma River and then the Omolon. Beyond that was the limit of the trees.

Crouching under the trees he heard a plane fly over again. Had they found something? Or were they just prowling?

Another long winter? In a still more barren country? He shuddered at the thought. How much could he stand? It seemed sometimes as if he had never been warm and comfortable. Night after night and day after day of piercing, unbelievable cold when he dared not relax, not for one minute, lest he make a mistake and die. It needed but one error, however trivial.

Thinking of another winter, he was close to despair. Could he survive? How? It would be infinitely worse here than further south. By the time another winter came he would be inside the Arctic Circle.

Gloomily, he stared into the coming night. And where was Natalya? Her father? How did they fare? And what had become of Yakov? Of Botev and Borowsky?

So much was happening of which he knew nothing.

Suppose, the idea came to him suddenly, he should try living out the winter in a town? He needed shoes, but he had a suit and one shirt.