“Several.” She seated herself. “But very little time. I bring you greetings from a friend who deals in furs. He does not walk well.”
He shook his head, smiling. “Will you have some tea?”
“I also bring you”—she took the book from under her arm—“Balzac’s Le Père Goriot. It was a book of my father’s.”
“A gift?” His eyes searched hers. “What is it you wish?”
“My friend has furs awaiting, as usual. We would like to pick them up tonight.”
“ ‘We?’ Does it need more than one?”
“It does.” She smiled at him. “I do not like being abrupt, and I know this is not the way such things are done, but I have no choice.”
His eyes searched hers, and the smile disappeared. “I see.” He took up the book she had placed on the table. “Fortunately, I read French.” He spoke very softly then, keeping his eyes on hers and his face slightly averted from the room, although nobody seemed to be paying attention. “At fifteen minutes to midnight, then? No earlier, no later.”
“Thank you.” She arose. “Until then,” she said, and turned to the door.
The street was dark but for the light from the cafe windows. Quickly, she crossed the street and stepped into the shadows of a doorway.
The street was empty, and snow was falling softly. Hesitating a moment, she stepped out into the snow. And then she heard the car.
It was coming up the street, the headlights pointing a lighted finger before them. With a step she was back in the doorway again and out of sight.
The Volga drew up at the cafe. A door opened and a woman got out. On the other side of the car the driver stepped out. He was a big, broad-shouldered man. The woman turned toward him, her face momentarily in the light.
It was Kyra Lebedev.
FORTY-TWO
JOE MACK KNEW how to wait while the dawn washed color from the sky. He knew how to wait while watching beyond the agonized arms of gnarled trees stretched against the morning. He had killed the moose and skinned it out, eating meat and saving meat against the long days to come.
He knew how to wait and watch for movement. The forest was sparse now, except for occasional tight groves of Mongolian poplar, willow along the streams, and scattered larch. He had found a shadow that suited him, and he waited in the shadow to see what moved in the distance.
Over there, a blue shadow against a paler sky, was another range, and he needed to study it in sunlight and in shadow to learn where the passes might be and where the canyons were.
He had come far, but had far yet to go, and now the land was narrow and the chase would tighten and close in. Alekhin would know that he would avoid the open tundra for its lack of cover and would keep to the mountains along the sea.
Alekhin had been hanging back, listening to what was said, studying his trail, planning for his own move. Joe Mack knew that as well as if Alekhin had told him. Alekhin would be impatient with the blundering efforts made thus far. He would know what to do when his time came, and his time was now.
There had been much blundering. First, Zamatev had not wanted to advertise that a prisoner had escaped him or that he even had prisoners. He had held back, expecting a quick capture.
Bringing soldiers into the field had been a mistake, also. If they had had to bring soldiers, they should have been a detachment of Siberians, not men from the Ukraine. Good men, no doubt, but flatlanders, unaccustomed to Arctic mountains.
The trappers had been a wise move on the face of things, but as Alekhin would know, the trappers were half in sympathy with the American. Not that they were in any sense disloyal, simply that he was one of them, a hunter and a trapper who handled himself as such, and they took pleasure in seeing him outwit the city men who organized the pursuit. The American had used their country as they might have used it, and so when they went into the field they did not look too hard.
Joe Mack studied the distance with care, his eyes sweeping the country bit by bit, missing nothing, remembering everything. He could read terrain as a scholar reads a rare manuscript or a jewelsmith studies a diamond for the cutting. Much of his life had been spent in wild country, and for nearly a year now he had lived in the taiga, learning its moods and its whims. Long ago he had learned that one could not make war against the wilderness. One had to live with it, not against it.
Somewhere out there, before or behind him, was Alekhin, closing in, making ready for the capture or kill. And Alekhin had had time to study him, while he knew little of the Yakut. Now he must learn or die.
Joe Mack knew that every move he made must be calculated, yet he must never establish a pattern of behavior. He must not allow Alekhin to guess where he might be at any given time. He must vary his campsites, be careful of his kills, change direction often.
Above all, he must be prepared for a fight to the death. Alekhin would understand nothing less.
Carefully, from his shadow atop the low ridge, he studied the terrain and plotted his route. There was easy cover ahead and to his right, so he must avoid it. That would be the best way, the likely way, so he must choose another. Yet even that procedure must not become a pattern.
Criminals were almost invariably stupid in this respect. If they escaped from the law, they returned to familiar surroundings to be close to those they knew, people who could help them and conceal them, people with whom they were comfortable. Of course, the law knew this and knew where to look for them and whom to question, and there was always somebody who would talk or who would drink too much and say too much.
Willie Sutton, that skillful escape artist, had rarely made that mistake. He would lose himself in a totally unexpected environment where nobody knew him and nobody would look for him.
So far he had kept to the highlands. Now, for a little while at least, he would take to the low country. Consequently, he must avoid being seen from above.
Seated in his shadow he worked on the moosehide, scraping fragments of flesh from it, allowing the warm sun to reach it. The hide would make excellent moccasins, and he would be needing them.
Nothing moved in the terrain before him. Working on the hide, he took time to watch, ready to catch the slightest movement. He saw nothing but a bird now and again, and just before the sun disappeared he saw three moose come from the willows and amble slowly across the terrain. He stopped his work to watch, for if they were frightened while en route it would reveal a presence there. They walked across the area and disappeared into the trees. Rolling up his moosehide, he added it to his pack, and shouldering it, he left the trees and went down a dry watercourse toward the river.
That night he found an overhang by the river where the rocks had been somewhat warmed by the brief sun. There he bedded down and slept. Before dawn he was moving again.
A narrow stream flowed north through the tundra. There was a film of ice along its banks, no more. Here and there was a patch of thin snow. There were willows in plenty and occasional poplar or larch. He wandered on, pausing at intervals to listen and to watch the flight of birds or the movements of animals. He found no tracks of men, only animals.
It was very still, not a breath of air stirring. He walked through the day and into the early evening. At night he found a place on a south-facing slope under some larch. There had been a blowdown there some years before and many of the trees stretched out above the bank of a watercourse, forming a roof. Beneath them he found a place for his camp.
* * *
—
COLONEL ARKADY ZAMATEV landed in Chersky. Lieutenant Suvarov awaited him as the plane landed. He led the way to a Volga parked near the airfield.
“No question about it, Colonel Zamatev. He has been seen in the forest. He was spotted by a high-flying plane, crossing a clearing.”
“You reported this to Alekhin?”
Suvarov’s lips tightened. “Comrade Alekhin says it was not hi
m, but who else could it be?”
“Why does he not think it was the American?”
Suvarov shrugged. “He says the American would not cross a clearing at this time. He would go around it. That’s absurd! Why go the long way around when he is obviously in a hurry?”
Zamatev said nothing. The Volga was taking them down a bumpy, icy street. Big concrete buildings, most of them five stories high, loomed about him. He looked at them, hating their bleak ugliness. Of course, in such a place as this, what could one expect? It was amazing they had built anything at all in this godforsaken country.
On the desk in the office prepared for him lay a series of reports. He scanned them rapidly. One and all they were, no matter how carefully worded, reports of failure. Not only failure to recapture the American, but losses of men and equipment.
“Any word from Comrade Lebedev?”
“Yes, sir. She is in Iman. The woman Baronas is there also. No sign of her father.”
“She has arrested the woman?”
“Not yet, but she is sure she is there, possibly with some intention of crossing into China. She should have her by nightfall.”
Zamatev sat down abruptly. He was exasperated. The Baronas woman was not that important. Why was Kyra wasting her time? She should be here, coordinating things, which she could do so very much better than this Suvarov. A nice young man, but no imagination, too ready to accept the easy way.
His hurried flight to Moscow had been on orders. He had been called on the carpet, and his friend on the Politburo had set it forth in plain, unvarnished terms: get the American at once or he would be removed from his command.
“You have been a fool, Arkady,” his friend had said. “You began well, and you should have continued with a series of small fry. Instead you became too ambitious. Taking this American was a frightful risk. Admitting for the moment that you carried it off well, you were still taking a chance of international repercussions. Then you allowed him to escape.”
“Nobody could have dreamed a man would attempt such a thing—”
“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 t
o 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?
FORTY-THREE
THROUGHOUT 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.
Last of the Breed (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 35