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.
Suppose, just suppose, he could do it? Where would he find shelter? How would he obtain food?
Yet it was something to consider, and by now they would be convinced he was only a wilderness man.
And what town? Magadan? It was the closest, but he would be putting himself in the enemy’s territory. He was an Indian, and the wilderness was his. He was a part of it. He belonged here. But in a town?
He shook his head and climbed back to the little ledge he had found. There was shelter there, hidden by trees.
And in the night a great wind blew, trees fell, and rocks tumbled down, crashing into the vast gorge below. Huddled against the cold, he listened, sheltered but awestruck at the storm’s fury. A cold, freezing rain fell, turning to ice in the air, making the trails sheets of ice and the trees like crystal forests that clashed and shattered in the night.
Somewhere a great rock fell; he heard it bounding from ledge to ledge down the canyon.
As suddenly as it came it was over, and a vast silence fell upon the mountain, a silence in which at last he slept, worn from travel.
He slept, and out of the storm and the night a man came, a man like a huge bear, feeling his way along the cliffs, then pausing. At last, unable to progress further, he paused. He was near, he told himself, the American was somewhere near.
Tomorrow he would have him.
Tomorrow…
Chapter 35
*
OSTAP STOOD ON the street, a cigarette hanging from his lip. Men were hurrying to work; a few cars passed and a big, clumsy truck. It was early morning, gray and dismal. Across from him was the framework of a huge, rambling structure begun months ago and left standing. In the spring they might finish it and they might not. One never knew in Magadan.
He hunched his shoulders against the cold. Not likely anybody was following him. He was small fry and wanted to stay that way so far as anybody knew. He would get his when the time came, and this affair might be an opening. Ostap was one who lived by the edge.
He had an edge here, an edge there. A piece of this and that. He did not want all of anything. To try to get it all left one vulnerable. But pieces were something else. All he wanted was a percentage.
He had a sort of loyalty to his kind, and his kind did not like Shepilov. He would like to trip Shepilov, do him a dirty one. At the same time, Shepilov was KGB and dangerous. He waited until a big truck passed, and then he crossed the street, started down an alley, and then turned into the incompleted building. In one of the completed rooms on the lower floor, three men were standing around a fire.
It was built on the concrete floor, with broken bits of lumber for fuel. Lev was there and Kraslov. With them was another man, a stranger.
Noticing his hesitation, Lev said, “This is Botev. He is all right.” Lev hunched his shoulders. He was a very young man whose face looked old. His blue eyes were perpetually red-rimmed and he had a slack mouth. Ostap did not like him, but he had connections. He was related somehow to several officials and doted upon by his mother and his aunt. He always knew when there was going to be a shakedown or an investigation, and he always knew who wanted what. He came to Ostap because Ostap knew how to get it.
“Botev is a trapper,” he said. “Lives in the forest.”
“Shepilov is in Magadan,” Ostap advised, reaching his fingers toward the fire.
Lev looked at him from the corners of his eyes. “Now how did you know that? He just arrived.”
Ostap shrugged. “I have my ways.” Better to let them think he had connections, too. And he did have, a few minor ones.
“Kuzmich is recruiting trappers and hunters to search for the American,” Lev said. “Botev has been asked.”
Ostap looked at Botev. “Zamatev wants him, too. Zamatev will pay.”
Kraslov shrugged. “What do you know of Zamatev?” he sneered.
“He will pay. He wants the American.”
Botev spoke up. “He is right. It is Zamatev who needs him most. Shepilov would like to try to get him first. The man escaped from Zamatev.” He squatted on his heels, close to the fire. “You cross Zamatev and he will break your back.”
Ostap glanced at Botev. “Will you go into the woods after the American?”
Botev smiled. “I will look,” he said. Then he added, “He is a Red Indian.”
They were fascinated, as he had known they would be. “A Red Indian? Truly? Does he wear feathers in his hair?”
“That was long ago. Some of them are capitalists now. This one was a flyer.”
“Think of that! A Red Indian who is a flyer! How did he escape?”
“Who knows? Do they ever tell you?”
Ostap spread his fingers toward the fire. “Zamatev will pay,” he repeated. “Shepilov will clap you on the shoulder and tell you what a great thing you have done for the Soviet.”
He glanced over at Botev. “Can you find him? You and the others?”
“What others? I can find him.”
Ostap rubbed his fingers together. “I can reach Zamatev,” he said. “He will pay well. If you can catch him,” he said to Botev, “fine. But speak to the others. Pass the word along. It is Zamatev who will pay.” Ostap looked into the fire, then up at them. “I would not wish to be the man who crosses Zamatev.” He stood up. “Catch him for Russia, but deliver him to Zamatev.”
“You will have no chance,” Kraslov said to Botev. “Alekhin is hunting him.”
There was silence, and then Botev suggested, “We could get him first.”
“Better you do if you want anything from it. If Alekhin gets him, there will only be a body.”
They huddled about the fire, and Ostap was thinking of Botev. A tough man, a good man. How did Lev come to know him? Botev was a man he could work with, but dared he trust him? But, after all, who did one trust? Certainly not Lev, and Kraslov least of all.
Ostap was looking at Botev when Kraslov spoke next. “They just took a man up on the road to Semychan, a man named Yakov. They are bringing him in tonight.”
Ostap was looking at Botev and he saw the man’s expression. Suddenly, he knew. This was why Botev was here. He had been seeking information.
Why? What was Botev’s interest in Yakov? He spoke casually, “I never heard of him.”
“Who hears of anything?” Kraslov said, impatiently. “What do they tell you? Nothing!”
“They do not have to,” Lev said, amused. “Word gets around. Somebody tells his comrade, the comrade tells his girlfriend, and she tells her mother. Soon everybody knows.”
Ostap was thinking. Sure, everybody whispered a little, but there were listening posts, such as this one, where one might hear things others did not talk about. How had Botev come to know Lev? Through the black market? Botev was a trapper and Lev dealt in whatever meant money. But why was Botev interested in the prisoner Yakov? And he was. Ostap had seen his expression. He wanted a word with Botev.
Nobody stayed long at the fire but Ostap had seen deals for thousands of rubles consummated here. No prices talked, just casual meetings and a
few words dropped as to what was needed and who would pay and occasionally a figure tossed in the air. If there was no reply, it had to be more. Ostap stood up, sure the movement would attract Botev’s eye. When their eyes met Ostap gestured with his head to indicate they would meet outside.
“Zamatev will pay,” Ostap said again. “He will pay well. If I knew where the American was, I could get us a bit of something very good.”
Ostap went outside, glancing up and down the street as he approached it. Bold as he might appear when talking to Katerina or Kyra, he was cautious in all his relationships and in moving about. He watched Kraslov go off up the street, but Lev lingered, seeming to want to speak. When he did he nodded after Kraslov. “I do not trust him.”
“Who can you trust?”
“I would trust you, Comrade Ostap.” Lev’s tone was sincere.
“And I, you.” Ostap hesitated, and then he said, “But there are some things best left unshared. Why should either get the other into trouble?”
After Lev disappeared, Botev returned. Where he had been in the meantime Ostap did not know.
Botev approached and then stopped, looking warily about. “You wished to speak to me?”
“Zamatev wants the American. Above all, he does not want Comrade Shepilov to reach him first. You will be out there among them, and I understand there is some feeling among some of them that might work for us.” He paused. “We must have the American. He is an enemy of the people.”
“Of course,” Botev replied, his tone slightly ironic.
“He cannot escape. Where he goes now, there are no hiding places. The country is too open.”
“You have been there?”
“No, no, of course not. But I have been told—”
Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) Page 28