Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (43 page)

“Yet he did, and now he is making fools of you all. Believe me, Arkady, if you do not capture this man and get something to show for what you have done, you are through. I can do no more for you. My friends will not accept failure.”

“Shepilov—”

“I know about Shepilov. He has been recalled to his station. There is enough for him to do without being occupied in this nonsense.” He had paused. “And what about this man Stephan Baronas and his daughter? What have they to do with all this?”

Zamatev was surprised. How did they know about
him
? But what did they not know? He spoke carefully. “The escaped prisoner was reported to have stopped for a time in a village where Baronas lived. Baronas and his daughter seem to have known him there, and we wanted them for questioning.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Well, it was several months—”

“You have been wasting time, Arkady. As you say, that was months ago. Whatever they knew then cannot apply now. The man has fled hundreds of miles since then. Leave them alone.”

Zamatev hesitated, then said, “But if they aided an enemy—?”

“We do not know that they did. In any event, the important thing is to recapture this American.” His friend had turned to Zamatev, and his eyes were not friendly. “Arkady, you have been a very able man. You have proved helpful to others as well as myself. We all value that help, but it is beginning to appear that you have lost your grip. It is a hard world, Arkady. My success depends much on the success of those whom I sponsor, as I have you. Do not fail me.”

He took up his pipe from an ashtray. “I wish you to understand something, Arkady. Baronas and his daughter have friends, very important friends. They are to be allowed to leave the country.”

“Yes, sir.” Zamatev was astonished, but he hoped it did not show on his face.

“Very important friends, and as he is of no value to us, he is being permitted to leave. Do not interfere. Do you understand?”

He understood well enough, but now Kyra was in Iman and about to arrest the Baronas woman. If Natalya Baronas and her father were arrested now, there would be trouble. He, and Kyra as well, might find themselves spending the rest of their lives on duty in some such place as Chersky.

“Suvarov? Can you get a call through to Comrade Lebedev in Iman?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Do it then. Tell her Baronas and his daughter are not to be arrested or interfered with in any way. Do you understand? And I want her here,
now
!”

Zamatev walked to the window and looked out over the bleak street and the gray blocks of concrete into the cheerless distance.

Baronas? Who would have believed it? The man was a Lithuanian, if he remembered correctly, some sort of a professor. Well, such men often made friends, powerful friends.

He shrugged. It was no business of his. He shoved his hands down in his pockets. His friend had certainly made it painfully clear. Catch the American and get something out of him, or he was through. All his dreams, his ambitions, for nothing. Once one had a mark like this against him, it was almost impossible to get going again.

He had no doubts about Kyra. She had become a tail to his kite, but if the kite would not fly—?

He walked to the door and looked into the outer office. “Let me know as soon as you have talked to Comrade Lebedev.”

“You wish to speak to her?”

“Just convey my message, nothing more.”

He walked back to his desk and sat down heavily. He must get into the field himself. He could not simply leave it to Alekhin, although the Yakut seemed confident enough.

On the wall, there was a great map showing the vast stretch of country between Chersky and the Bering Strait, everything from Magadan east. For a long time he stood, hands clasped behind his back, studying that map. Suvarov had placed a pin on the map at the place where the man had been seen. At least, where a man had been seen.

Suppose that man was not the American? Who could it be? And what would he be doing out in that miserable country at this time of year?

He returned to the door of the outer office. “Suvarov? I’ll want a helicopter. Didn’t I see an MIL-4 out there? I want it and as many men as it will safely carry with their equipment. I want it and the men ready first thing tomorrow. I am going into the field myself. And,” he added, “you are going with me.”

All right, he would show them what he was made of. He would have that American in his hands within hours.

He turned back to Suvarov. “That man who was seen? I want him, no matter who he is. I want him brought to me. Get some helicopters into the area. Make a thorough search. Alekhin says this is not our man, but I want to see for myself. I want to talk to that man.”

Walking back to his desk, he dropped into a chair. He did not like all this running about. There were others to do that, but there was so much wasted effort, so much wasted time! Nobody really cared. That was the trouble.

No, he was wrong about that. Many people did care, and some worked very hard, for one reason or another, but not enough of them. The great problem was inertia.

By now the American was probably somewhere in the Chukchi Region or just over the line into the Koryak. It was wild country, but there were few forests, and the mountains were more icy and barren. The man would be more exposed.

They would get him now. They must get him.

The trouble was, back in Moscow they did not even grasp the sheer size of the country he had been dealing with. To find one man in all that vast area, especially one who wanted to hide and was skilled at it, was nearly impossible.

Suvarov appeared in the doorway. “Sir? I have not been able to reach Comrade Lebedev. Perhaps if I were to fly down there—?”

You would like that, wouldn’t you?
Zamatev said to himself. “No,” he said aloud. “I shall need you with me. Get in touch with Comrade Yavorsky at my office. Tell her that the Baronas father and daughter are not to be arrested. They are to be left strictly alone. Tell her that Comrade Lebedev is now in Iman for that purpose and must be stopped, stopped at all costs.”

Emma Yavorsky had never liked Kyra Lebedev, but Kyra had to be reached somehow, and he would be off searching for the American. It was a pity. Kyra was a lovely and intelligent woman, but to fly in the face of orders would be suicidal. Emma Yavorsky would not only stop her in time, she would take pleasure in it. Maybe he could straighten matters out later, but for now Kyra must be stopped at all costs.

Suppose she did arrest them and had Stegman put them to the question?

Chapter 43

T
HROUGHOUT THE DAY, they waited. Several times cars drove by, but usually their street was deserted. It led to nowhere, and easier routes were available to anyone going in either direction. Natalya stood often at the dusty, flyspecked window looking across the river into China and freedom. Or what she hoped would be freedom.

It was cold, and they dared have no fire. The building where they were was supposed to be an old warehouse.

“This woman you saw? You believe it was the Lebedev woman?”

“You described her to me, and the man with her.”

“They are searching for us, then. There could be no other reason why she would be here.”

She drew her coat more tightly about her, clasping her arms about her body. Across the street, there were other warehouses and some ramshackle buildings along the river. There were old boat landings there and a wharf from which cargo had been loaded on riverboats long ago. Now they were gray, bare, harried by the wind. It was a bleak outlook, and so was hers if Potanin failed them.

Where was Joe Mack? There had been no word of him, but she had been nowhere she would be likely to hear. There was always gossip, but one had to be around, listening, at the places where gossip was repeated.

How could he ever escape? She remembered the woods and shivered. There had been brief moments when she had loved them, moments when her father was alive and they had walked out to see the flowers, to hear the birds, to watch for small animals, but the winters were so brutally cold, and it was a fierce struggle to gather fuel, even to keep alive. Often they had starved. There had been weeks on end when they had survived on less food than was needed for a child. Yet somehow they had survived, and then he had come.

Did she truly love him? Or was it that he had brought some strange magic into their colorless, empty lives? He had given them meat, but more than that he had given them hope. If he, pursued by them all, could believe in escape, believe in a future somewhere after this, then it was possible for them to believe also.

What was it that had drawn her to him? Undeniably, he was a striking figure of a man, but it had been something more. When with him, she felt warm, secure, safe. He was not blundering, wishing, complaining, or hopeless. He was going somewhere, and he knew where he was going and how to get there, and suddenly she did, too.

It was he who had given hope to her father. She could see that clearly now. He had become resigned to suffering, resigned to working out a poor existence in the taiga. Or he was becoming resigned.

Now she was here, and across the river was China. If only her father could have lived for this moment! Even if they did not escape, they would at least have tried, and they would have at least seen freedom.

What awaited them in China she did not know, but she knew that somehow they would prevail.

“I am afraid,” Evgeny said, coming up beside her. “I have staked everything on this. If I fail now, there will be no further chance for me. I cannot survive another interrogation.”

“You will survive. We are going to succeed, Father.” She called him so because she could see it pleased him, and how much did he have now that could give him pleasure? “We are going to escape.”

Suddenly he spoke. “I think we should leave here. I have a bad feeling about this place.”

She had it, too. For several minutes now she had been finding the old building oppressive. “We can go over there,” she said, indicating the old wharf. “We can go over there where nobody goes.”

“Now,” he said. “Let us go now.”

She took up her small bundle and they waited, checking the narrow street each way and then giving a quick look around to see if anything had been left. Then they went out of the door and across the street. A cold wind was blowing, and they hurried to get into the lee of the battered old structure across the way. Even as they reached the wharf, they heard a car coming. The wharf was huge and empty, and the wall of the old building fronting it was blank and closed. Suddenly her eyes saw an old path running down beside the wharf.

“Quickly!” she said and almost ran down. Then they ducked under the wharf. It was dark and shadowed there, with only occasional bits of light coming through cracks in the wharf. There was a steep bank of earth sloping down to the rim of ice that bordered the river, and two old boats were tied there, one of them half filled with water filmed with ice. The other boat was empty except for some old nets.

“There!” Evgeny pointed. “Get into the boat and cover up with the nets.”

Quickly, they scrambled into the boat and pulled the old nets over them. Then they lay very still.

They could hear the roar of a motor, the screech of brakes, and then a pounding on a door. Natalya lay very still, scarcely breathing, straining her ears to hear.

A door creaked, and there were voices. Then a door closed. The room would have been cold, and they had left no signs of their occupation. The place was as it had been when they had arrived.

She heard the crunch of boots on gravel and then on the wharf overhead. Then the feet retreated. After a moment she heard boots coming down the little path and pausing, and she saw the shadow of a man, apparently peering under the dock. Then she heard retreating footsteps.

After a while came the sound of cars starting and then driving away. She started to move, but Evgeny placed a hand on her shoulder. “Not yet,” he said.

They lay still while the time ticked away, and after a long time, what must have been an hour, he sat up. Carefully they got out of the boat and arranged the nets as they had found them. He sat down on the bank, choosing a piece of plank to keep off the frozen earth. She sat beside him.

“We must wait,” he said. “The less movement the better, and it will not be long now.”

It was growing dark when they emerged from under the wharf. There were scattered lights across the river. Her feet were almost frozen, and she stamped them on the wharf to get them warm again. Evgeny looked at his watch.

“We will stay here a little longer,” he said.

“Lieutenant Potanin said fifteen minutes to midnight,” she reminded.

He nodded. “We have a way to go, and we cannot hurry. Along the quiet streets would be better.”

“What about the Chinese? What if they will not accept us?”

He shrugged. “We can only try, but they are usually friendly to anyone escaping from the Soviets. This is an old, old border, and there has been much trouble along it for centuries. Once, all this was considered part of China, and it is still shown as such on some of their maps.”

Lights stabbed the darkness, reflecting from the open water and from the ice along the edges and the floes. “Now,” he said, “we will go.”

Coming up from the river, they stopped a minute, looking across at the blank old building that had briefly been a refuge. It looked cold and gray and dismal. Together they started along the street. He used his cane, moving slowly. She thought that surely they would be recognized, for if they were looking for a crippled old man and a young woman—

She said as much. “No,” he said, “they will not expect to find you with me. They will expect your father.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Her father? She had buried him herself. Unable to dig a grave in the frozen earth, she had covered him with spruce boughs and then managed to cave part of a bank over him. He had said to her once, long ago, “When I die, remember that what you knew of me is with you always. What is buried is only the shell of what was. Do not regret the shell, but remember the man. Remember the father.”