Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (41 page)

Spring was coming and after it, the brief summer. It would be good to be warm again. He had almost forgotten how it would feel.

Where was Natalya now? Would he ever see her again? Ever hold her hands in his and look again into her eyes? Or had she forgotten already? He could not blame her. After all, who was he? A strange young man who came from the forest and disappeared again into that strange forest. A man whose path had crossed hers briefly and who must now seem like a dream. He grinned into the late afternoon. “Or a nightmare,” he said aloud.

There was still forest, although the trees were not as tall, the undergrowth less, and there was more moss, lichens, and tundra. Soon he would run out of cover and would have to seek out other ways in which to hide himself.

In the thickest patch he could find, he built a crude shelter, started a fire with his two pieces of iron pyrite, and made a thick broth as well as tea. The helicopter flight had probably given him a little respite. Even Alekhin would have trouble picking up his trail now.

Twice during the day he had seen the tracks of moose and decided it would be good to kill one and save as much meat as possible. In this cold, it was no problem to keep meat. It froze solid almost as soon as it was killed. Tomorrow he would kill a moose. Tomorrow—

A
RKADY ZAMATEV LOOKED across his desk at the Yakut. “Why have you not found him?” he demanded. “Has he outwitted you again?”

“I do not have to follow him. I know where he is going. I shall be there.”

“Where now?”

“I go to Gizhiga. There I go inland. He will come that way, and I shall take him.”

“So you said before.”

“And I shall.” Alekhin shrugged impatiently. “Those others, they get in the way.” He smirked, his sullen eyes showing his contempt. “He made a fool of Colonel Rukovsky. He destroyed him. Ruined him. How does he explain losing so many men, and nothing to show for it? Rukovsky was a fool to get involved. It was not necessary, and I was there. I would have had him then but that they muddied the waters. I knew where he was.”

“And you did not tell?”

“To let Rukovsky or Shepilov get credit for capturing him? He cost Rukovsky twenty-nine men, and Rukovsky must explain.”

“The American had nothing to do with the slide.”

“You say. I say he knew where he hid. He knew how they must search, and he prepared some traps and led them to others. Of course he knew. He planned it that way.

“What of the fire that destroyed so much equipment? The American started that fire. What of the traps along the trail that killed or injured men? He prepared those, too. He is no fool, this American, but I shall have him now.”

He looked up slyly from under his brows. “You still want him alive? It would be easier to kill him.”

“I must have him alive. I need three to five days alone with him. He will tell me all I wish to know.”

“He will tell you nothing. Nothing at all. By now you should know this. You may kill him, but he will tell you nothing. He is not afraid of pain, this one. He knows what he can do.”

Zamatev shook his head. “Bring him here. That is all I ask.”

“He was one of those who delivered Yakov.”

Zamatev sat up sharply. “You know this? Why was I not told?”

“I tell you now.”

Zamatev swore. “Then he has Russians helping him! I want them rounded up, brought in, every one of them!”

Alekhin looked at his thick fingers with their broken nails, and then he looked up from under his brows. “Be careful, comrade. He has destroyed Rukovsky, this one. Be sure he does not destroy you.”

Zamatev snorted angrily. “Destroy
me
? That is ridiculous!”

Alekhin looked out of the window. “He will destroy you,” he said contemptuously, “and then he will return and kill you.”

“Bah!” Zamatev said impatiently. “How could he reach me? If he is anxious to kill me, why has he not tried?”

“First,” Alekhin said, “he wishes to escape. But to escape is not enough. He escapes to make light of you. Then he wishes to beat you at your own game.”

“That’s childish! That’s nonsense! Why should he care? Anyway, how could you know this?”

“He is Indian. I am Yakut. He is not like you. He is like me. He knows how to hate, this one. He knows how to win. He will make a fool of you, destroy you, and then he will come back.”

“Come back to Siberia? You are insane! He cannot escape, but if he should, why would he come back?”

“To kill you,” Alekhin repeated. “He has pride, this one. He does not ask reward. He does not care if his government knows. He does not care if Russia knows. It is only important that
he
knows.” Alekhin smiled, and it was not a good smile. “And that you know. When he kills you, you will know he is doing it.”

Chapter 41

E
VGENY ZHIKAREV WAS frightened. Across the river was China, not a mile from where he stood looking out the dirty, flyspecked window. Now that he was so near, his courage seemed to have drained from him, and for the first time he thought of himself as an old man.

Once he could have swum that river. Once he could have ducked and dodged if necessary to escape them. Now he was no longer agile, and his poor stumps of feet were crippled and broken. To move swiftly or adroitly was impossible.

Worst of all, he had promised a beautiful young woman that he would help her escape from Siberia.

How could he have been so foolish? Was it not enough that he escape himself, without trying to help another? And what did she mean to him, anyway?

She meant nothing. He scarcely knew her. Actually, he did not know her at all. She was the daughter of Stephan Baronas, and he had known, slightly, Stephan Baronas and respected him as a man and as a scholar.

He shivered. Escape was so near, and he so desperately wanted to live his last years in warmth and contentment. He wanted to be away from fear of the authorities, from fear of questioning, of harassment. He just wanted to sit in the sun again, to doze quietly and watch the boats on the bay, any bay at all where he was free.

He wanted to eat well again, to sit in a cafe, order a meal, and talk with people at other tables near him. He wanted to read a book, a newspaper, anything that was simply what it was and not something first approved by the state.

He was an old man, and he was tired.

Yesterday he had ventured into the streets for the first time. He had found his way to a small place where river men went to eat or drink and where fur trappers sometimes came, although free trappers were scarce these days. Soldiers came there sometimes, and he had heard them talking among themselves. Lieutenant Potanin was stationed here, and the men liked him. He was easy on them, demanding little except alertness when superior officers were around, or the KGB.

It was quiet along the border. The Chinese were over there, but they bothered nobody, and a little undercover trade went on across the river. The Chinese had vegetables, fruit, and many other things unavailable across the Ussuri.

What fruit could be found on the Russian side of the river was packaged and sent elsewhere.

He heard the door open behind him and turned. It was Natalya. How lovely she was! She could have been the daughter he had never had, the family he had wanted.

She came over to the window. He gestured. “There is China, and now I am afraid.”

“I know.” She was silent for a few minutes, and then she said, “We must not be afraid now, no more than we need to be to be careful. I think we will escape, you and I.”

The road that ran along in front of the house was hard-packed snow with hoofprints, footprints, and tire tracks.

There were piles of dirty snow along the walks, which were only paths now between the buildings and the drifts. Soot was scattered over the snow, and drifting dust and dirt. Soon the snow would be gone and spring would come. The ice on the river had broken up.

“Potanin is here?”

“He is. I listened to soldiers speak of him and of others. He is here now, and I must find a way to speak to him, but not at his post. It must be here in the town and quietly if possible.”

“You do not know where he lives?”

“No, and I cannot ask. I must watch, listen, and hope for a word or to meet someone I know. That truck driver, the one who brought us to town, he knows him.”

“But he is gone!”

“Of course, but he will return.” Evgeny peered into the street. “I do not like this. Something is
wrong
! Something feels wrong! I am afraid.” He looked at her. “Do not think me a coward, but we are so close now, and this feeling, this sense, this foreboding—I do not like it.

“That truck driver? He was kind to give us the ride, but what is he to us? Nothing! Suppose he is picked up by the police and just to get them off his back he speaks of us? Suppose we were seen getting out of the truck? It was night, I know, but there is always somebody up and about, and people report on their neighbors, their own families, even! So what are we? Nobody! He could inform on us with a clear conscience. It is better to trust nobody.”

“What of Potanin?”

“I do not worry about him. Not much. He believes he will make a little from dealing with me. He will let me go over, thinking I will come back with a fat piece of whatever it is for him. He lives well, that one. He eats well, he has a few things to give to the girls, and he sends a few things to his family in Irkutsk. Because of him, they live well, too.”

A big Kama truck growled past, laboring with its heavy load on the icy street.

“I must be careful,” he grumbled. “On my feet I can move only slowly, and I think they look for me. I think they look for a man with crippled feet.”

“I can go. I am not afraid.”

He hesitated. “It is a risk. If you are stopped—?”

“I will be in trouble,” she said, “but nothing is gained without risk, and how long can we stay here?”

She was right, of course. They had no right to be here. He knew the owner was a sick man and was far away in Khabarovsk in a hospital. There had been business between them, and sometimes furs had been stored here. Nevertheless, if he returned and found them here, he would drive them out at once. The risk was too great.

“Whatever you do,” Zhikarev warned, “do not go to the post. Do not go nearer the river than you must. They are very suspicious, and they shoot first and ask questions of the body.

“Potanin likes to live well, and there is a small place”—he traced an imaginary diagram with his forefinger—“here. There is a woman there who makes little pastries and has tea. Also”—he looked up at her—“she does a bit of business. She will have a bit of cheese and some sliced meat, and she makes an excellent borscht.

“Potanin goes there. This our driver told me while you slept. He goes there each day for a bit of something before going on duty. He reads a little, that one. He will be a round-faced one with black hair, and he will have a book.”

“A book?”

“He is always with a book. He reads the old ones, Pushkin, Gogol, Chekhov—”

He paused. “Speak to him of books. You will have his attention at once. You understand? He is friendly but aloof. I mean he does not mix. He is not one of your vodka-swilling young officers who stagger home from duty.

“He will have a drink, of course, but all who approach him want favors; others are afraid because he is a soldier and wears that uniform. As for receiving things from across the border, many of his superiors come to him for a bit of something now and again. But speak to him of books and you will not be brushed aside. He will be curious. I know him.”

She put on her coat and the fur hat. She was shabby, she knew. Her clothing was old and much worn. However, there would be many like her here, and it was well that she would not attract attention. She must be as unobtrusive as possible.

“You have some rubles?”

“Enough. Say a prayer for me, Father. I shall need it.”

She went out and closed the door behind her.
Ah
, he said to himself,
she called me Father! I wish I were her father. To have such a child could make a man proud
. Yet he was frightened. She had been long away from towns and people, and things in Russia had changed.

She walked steadily, stepping carefully because of the ice, but not wanting to attract attention by hurrying too much. As she walked she was alert to all around her.

A Volga went by, slowing a little for slippery places. Another Kama was parked at the corner. As she passed it, she felt dwarfed by its size. Few people were on the street. The Volga had gone on ahead of her and was pulling off to one side near an official-looking building of concrete, squat and ugly.

She had to pass right by it, but she kept her head down and walked on. Two people were getting out of the Volga, a big man who stamped his feet to warm them and a woman. She was a young woman, dressed very well, but obviously an official.

As she passed the Volga, the woman turned around. She was a sharp-looking, very attractive brunette. Her hair was drawn back, and her eyes were large. For an instant their eyes met, and she saw a puzzled expression come into the woman’s face. Natalya walked on, her heart beating heavily.

Had she been recognized? But how could she be? Who knew her? Or cared about her?

Forcing herself not to look back, she continued on, rounded a corner, then went off down another street. Then she came back to the little place of which Evgeny had spoken.

She went in. Several people were present, but no young officer. She ordered tea and a bowl of borscht that turned out to be surprisingly good.

She ate slowly and had another cup of tea. He did not come. At last she arose, paid, and left. At the door she took a moment to straighten her coat and put on her gloves, studying the street. Emerging, she looked again up and down and then deliberately chose a way that would avoid the street along which she had come. Her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to avoid looking around to see if she was followed.

Several times she changed direction, but the streets were virtually empty in this quarter. She hurried on, returning to the little room in the corner of the old building.