Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (9 page)

“I think,” she was lighting a cigarette, and for a moment a flicker of irritation went through him, “you will go far, just as far as you wish.” She paused. “
If
you catch the American.”

“You know about him?”

“Everybody does. When the Army is alerted, word gets around. You will catch him, I think. How could he get away?”

Zamatev did not like talking about it. This one was closemouthed; he had already made sure of that. Nevertheless—

“He may already be dead. How could he survive? Without food? And it is growing cold.”

Arkady Zamatev said something that had been in his mind but unspoken until now. “This one is different,” he admitted, “but we will get him.”

“Shepilov wants him, too.”

“What do you know about Shepilov?” Zamatev’s eyes were cold. “I did not know you knew him.”

“I worked in his bureau.”

“I knew that, but—”

She smiled teasingly. “No, I didn’t, if that is what you’re wondering. Anyway, Shepilov does not encourage the girls. He is too afraid of his wife. She’s a terror. Or so I hear.”

Zamatev knew all about Masha. People avoided her, and Shepilov had been passed over for promotion at least once because of her. Associate with a man and you associate with his wife, and she was not liked. It was a mistake Zamatev did not intend to make. He told himself that again.

“Shepilov”—she brushed ash from her cigarette—“wants him. He wants to say you lost the prisoner and it took Shepilov to catch him.”

“I mill get him.”

“I am sure you will. I hope you will. You are a good man, Arkady, good for Russia, but you have enemies. You stand in the way of too many people. Shepilov, for one. Until now there has been nothing they could say; now they are saying it, quietly and among themselves. Tomorrow, if Shepilov should catch him—”

“I know,” he admitted.

He put away his razor and picked up his shirt. She was getting out of bed and he averted his eyes. Somehow it always embarrassed him to see a woman dressing. It was stupid of him, after all that had passed between them, but still the feeling was there.

“What is he like, this American?”

Zamatev paused, buttoning his shirt. He stared at the mirror but remembered the American. “Tall,” he said, “strong-looking. Arrogant.” He paused, buttoned another button, and added, “He was not afraid. All of the others, all of them, were afraid, but not him.”

“I heard he is an Indian?”

“He is.”

“But they were savages! Primitive!”

He shrugged. “Once. Now I hear they are heads of oil companies. Suvarov tells me one of them was Vice President of the United States.”

“But he is an Indian? Shepilov is wrong, then. He is looking in the cities. He is looking along the Amur.”

“Where do you think we should look?”

“In the taiga. If he is an Indian—”

“That’s what Alekhin believes.”

“Alekhin is looking for him?” She shuddered a little. “He frightens me, Alekhin does. There’s something about him, something ugly.”

Zamatev knew what she meant, but he shrugged. “He is a Yakut.”

“I’ve known many Yakuts. Two of my closest girlfriends are Yakuts. They are afraid of him, too.”

Zamatev finished dressing and reached for his coat. Alekhin always got his man. The trouble was that by the time the GRU got to them they were dead. It happened too often, much too often. Often one killed from necessity but Alekhin seemed to like killing. Well, he must speak to him. This American he wanted alive, if possible. The American was no good to him dead.

Strange, that in all this time he had not been seen or heard from. Alekhin believed he had a clue. The Yakut was sure he knew where he was but as yet had not caught him. Arkady Zamatev did not like leaving for the taiga himself. It gave his enemies too much of an opportunity. While he was around they were afraid of him, and he wanted them to remain so.

She was buttoning her blouse. “Arkady? Do you want me to help?”

Astonished, he glanced at her. “You? How could you help?”

She smiled at him. “I can help. I worked in the bureau for three years.”

“You believe that taught you enough?” he scoffed gently.

“It taught me that most of them are time wasters. Most of them are stupid plodders. They have no insight, no intuition. If he has evaded you this long, something new is needed.”

Zamatev could not have agreed more. Yet how could she help?

“Perhaps a new viewpoint,” she suggested. “Let me work with you.”

He shook his head. “No. This”—he gestured at the room and the bed—“is one thing. Work is another.”

“I want no favors,” she replied coolly, “and would expect to be treated as the others.” Her eyes met his directly. “I, too, am ambitious. For you as well as for me. There will be times when you must be gone, and I can be there. Also, I know Comrade Shepilov.”

Zamatev shook his head, but not as decisively. “Think about it,” she added, and went into the bathroom.

He stood for a minute, undecided. It went against everything he believed, every resolution he had made, yet it was tempting to have an ally in the bureau. Or was she a plant from Shepilov himself? She had worked in his office.

It was cold in the street. He stood for a moment looking along the avenue, noting the cars that were there. It was an old practice from his days as a military attaché in London and Paris, where one could almost expect to be followed. He seemed to be merely buttoning his heavy coat and turning up the collar against the wind, but his eyes were busy. The little car was there again today. He waved his driver aside and started walking briskly along the street.

As he turned the first corner he stopped abruptly, tugging on his gloves. A moment later the little car swept by. He chuckled, and crossing the street, he went on to the office.

On his desk the usual work awaited: papers to be read and initialed, others to be read and discarded. He went through the stack methodically until he came to the reports on the search for Major Makatozi. They were arranged in four neat stacks. Nothing…nothing…at Albazino near the Amur border, guards had shot and killed a Buriat attempting to escape into China…a Yakut tracker had followed tracks for some distance only to have the trail vanish under his eyes.

The American’s boots had left a distinct impression when the tracks could be found at all. Now they were gone, as if the man had been whisked away by what the Americans called a flying saucer.

Zamatev swore. Maybe he did need Kyra. Certainly, he needed somebody with brains. By this time they should have captured any number of escapees. Always before it had been a matter of hours only, occasionally of days.

Yet what could Kyra do that was not being done? What could
he
do? Carefully, he went over in detail what had been done.

The quick, immediate search that caught eight out of ten who escaped from anywhere. Then the wider, more complete search, the issuing of orders to the Amur troops, search parties sent out from various centers, people everywhere alerted. Nobody had seen anything.

Alekhin claimed to have a lead, flimsy at best. The possible theft of a knife, unproved; the possible theft of canned supplies, also unproved. The remains of a sheep Alekhin said had been butchered by a hunter before wild animals reached the carcass. That was at least questionable.

The truth was they had nothing. They had seen nothing, and they knew nothing. The man might be dead. He might have drowned crossing a river, been killed by wild animals, or be dying of starvation.

It was a vast, barren land out there, and few could survive. The man had no weapons, no means of obtaining food. He did not know the country. He would have no allies among the people. Any loyal Russian might turn him in. But, he paused in his thinking, this was not Russia. This was Siberia. There were people here who did not love the government no matter how much they might love Mother Russia.

Zamatev dismissed the idea. The chances of his coming upon such a one was limited, indeed.

No, if the man still lived he was out there now, cold, hungry, and in fear of capture.

Zamatev got to his feet and walked to the window. The little car was down there. He chuckled. Shepilov was so obvious! Yet, he frowned, did they know about Kyra? If they did, and she was not already a plant, they would find the means to make her so. Or they would try.

Colonel Zamatev drew a sheet of paper from the drawer in his desk and wrote down the name Makatozi. After it he listed
Alternatives
: north, south, east, west.

North was impossible: cold, an icy sea, no chance of escape. West, all of Russia: very doubtful. South, to the Amur and China: probable. East, toward the Bering Strait or the Sea of Okhotsk: possible but unlikely.

Best area for concentrated search: the Amur region. Troops were alerted there, the Party was conducting a quiet but thorough search, and all officials had been notified. The man would need food, so he could not remain long in the wilderness. But what if, as Alekhin suggested, the man could hunt? What if he had actually killed that sheep whose carcass they had found?

All right, he would take that into consideration. Suppose he was, as Zamatev believed, still alive? Any man of sense must understand he could not live out the winter in the area where he now was. Much of the game would move south into warmer lands; the rest would be hard to track down. Game would move much less in the cold. The rivers would be frozen with ice too thick to cut through for fishing, unless the fugitive remained in one place to keep the ice out of the hole he would cut.

So then, the fugitive would move south into the Amur region. He might even attempt the Sikhote Alin Mountains along the coast of the Sea of Japan. There was good hunting there or had been the last he had heard.

The border was taken care of. The Army could be relied upon. Now he needed a careful sweep of the country north and east of the Olekma, largely from the Amur to the Stanovoy Range.

He went to the door and opened it into the outer office. “Yavorsky? I will speak to Comrade Lebedev.”

Emma Yavorsky arose. She was a stocky, untidy woman, but she was efficient. “The new one? She is attractive.”

His eyes were cold. “Perhaps. She is also astute. I have work for her.”

Yavorsky was well connected. She was also inclined to speak her mind. Her disapproval was obvious. “Of course.” Her smile was almost insulting.

Coolly he said, “I am sending her to Aldan.”

Yavorsky was astonished, her imaginings dashed. “To
Aldan
?”

“She is an intelligent woman. I need someone there who can supervise the search.” He paused and stared at her. “Did you wish to go in her place, comrade? Is that what I am to understand?”

“To Aldan? No, no, of course not. I just thought—”

“It is a focal point,” Zamatev replied. “I need someone there to be sure the cold weather does not make them laggard.” He could see this had been the right move. No man would send to Aldan a woman in whom he had interest. “Send her in to me as soon as she arrives.”

He went back into the office and stood before the map of Siberia. Aldan was probably too far now, but he must shake them up, get them out looking. His eyes scanned the rivers, checking the towns to the south of Aldan.

He heard a knock and turned around. Her brown hair was drawn back from her forehead. She was dressed neatly but plainly. Trust Kyra Lebedev to do the correct thing. Briefly, he explained. He half expected a protest, but there was none.

Using the map he explained his thinking. “It is a vast area, and I cannot be everywhere. Get out there. Make sure they are conducting an active search. Demand reports, detailed reports. Be sure they speak to all the hunters and prospectors, the engineers on the BAM project, and the workmen. Check for anything suspicious, even remotely so.”

“Do you want me to go out myself?”

“No, no, of course not! If he’s out there we’ve got to find him! We’ve got to get him back!” He glanced at her. “When can you leave?”

She glanced out the window. “It is too late now. I can leave in the morning.”

“Take Stegman. He is a good driver and knows how to care for a car in cold weather. He is also a strong man if you need him, and he’s no fool.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “I shall miss you.”

“And I, you. But I asked to help. I wanted this.”

“Fly to Aldan. You can get a car there.”

He took her to the map and discussed the possibilities. Her questions were few and intelligent. “And if I find him?”

“Bring him back in chains. And I mean, in
chains
. If you cannot bring him back alive, kill him. I trust your judgment.”

He paused again. “Stegman can do it.”

Her expression was cool. “I do not need Stegman for that. I can do it.”

Chapter 10

T
HE PISTOL WAS steady, but the eyes behind it were not those of a killer. They were cool, appraising, interested eyes. The man spoke, but the words were Russian. There was a question in them, and Joe Mack supposed he was asking who he was or what he was doing.

“I am a man who wishes to be left alone.”

Surprisingly, the man replied in English. “Who are you? What do you do here?”

“I am hiking,” Joe Mack lied smoothly. “I am walking around the world. It was a wager,” he said, “a bet, a sporting thing. I must succeed by next June. I have only to reach Los Angeles.”

Whether the man believed him or not, Joe Mack had no idea. In any event he was stalling for time, trying to see a way out, a way that would take him away from the gun.

“This was permitted?” The man was skeptical, and the pistol did not waver.

“No, it was not. I have no business to be here. I bother no one; I live off the country.”

“If you plan to walk, you have far to go. Winter comes. You had better come with me. I will find you shelter.”

“No,” Joe Mack said.

“No?” The pistol gestured. “I do not wish to shoot.”

“Then do not.” Joe Mack was poised, waiting. “Just walk away and forget me. After all,” he added, “if you take me down there, you will have to answer many questions. One question will be what you were doing up here at this hour.”