Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) (17 page)

He paused again when well back into the birch forest and looked carefully around. He must not be followed. And he must prepare, now, for an escape. Above all he must not settle down to a day-by-day existence here. True, this was the best sort of place he could find to ride out the winter, but he must be prepared to move, and quickly, at any time.

The search was on, and it would be a relentless search. Remembering Alekhin, he knew the man would be ruthless as well as persevering. And somewhere down the chain of days they would meet. Somewhere, somehow, he knew it would happen.

Man to man, face to face, and death for one or both.

Remembering Alekhin’s cold, heavy-lidded eyes, he felt a chill.

Chapter 17

C
OLONEL ARKADY ZAMATEV was coldly furious. He was also frightened.

He had spent the evening at a gathering in the apartments of Comrade Shepilov, where he had been almost immediately surrounded by questioners wanting to know about the American who had escaped.

Who
was
he? What exactly had happened? Where was he now? There were people present who were important. Trust Shepilov to be sure of that. There were also people who would go away wondering and asking questions of each other. The hitherto solid tower he had built was showing signs of wear and tear.

There was but one answer. He must recapture the American without delay. But had he not been trying to do just that? Had he not alerted everyone? Had he not tried everything he could think of? And not a single lead.

Well, not many. There was, of course, Alekhin’s feeling and the indications he, Alekhin, believed in.

Zamatev sat down behind his desk and page by page went over the reports he had received from the field.

Negative.

The man had vanished like a ghost. In a vast, only partly explored land, without weapons, without food, without proper clothing, he had disappeared. The man could not speak Russian. He could not possibly know the country well enough to exist. Aside from the one insubstantial story Alekhin had, there were no reports of thefts; yet somehow if alive, the man had to be eating.

Pennington had been brought back and grilled. He had been treated roughly, yet he obviously knew nothing. It was apparent that Pennington was telling the truth. After all, they had had no time together, and their conversation, carefully overheard, had been an exchange of the most obvious kind. As Pennington said, the man would not and could not trust him. Their informant in the prison knew nothing, either.

Zamatev made tea. He liked it strong, and on this night he needed it.

Once more he got out the map and studied it. First, the large map of the Trans-Baikal and the lands to the east. That portion of Siberia east of Lake Baikal, lying between the Amur River border with China and the Arctic Ocean, was a huge piece of territory. He merely glanced at the thick finger of land pointing eastward toward the Bering Strait and Alaska. That was impossible, absolutely impossible. Mountains, rivers, and tundra. Few villages, few people, many small mountain ranges, swamps, and bitter cold.

South toward the Amur; that has to be it. Perhaps eastward, south of Magadan?

He was studying the map when he heard the tap on the door. For a moment he sat starkly still.

The KGB? They usually came in the night. But he, Zamatev,
was
the KGB, or at least he was the GRU, which was almost the same thing.

The knock came again. Too light for that. He walked to the door. “Who is there?” he demanded.

“Kyra.”

He opened the door. “Come in! Come in! How are you?” His kiss was brief. Her lips were cold from the night air.

There was no nonsense about her. She walked right to his desk. She placed a typewritten report on the map. “It is there, what I have learned, but let me tell you. I think I have a lead.”

He sat down and leaned back in the chair. “Tell me.”

“We covered a lot of area and we found nothing, nothing at all. We asked questions, we looked at reports. Nothing.

“In Aldan, however, there is a dealer in furs. A man named Evgeny Zhikarev.”

“I know the name.”

“Exactly. Stegman had questioned him once.”

“What about him?”

“A dealer in furs, as I said, and a small bale of furs had just been received. Obviously he was nervous, and it had something to do with the furs. I went through them, and I know something of pelts. Some of them were very fine skins, and the best of them were treated in a different way from the bulk. Most of the furs were crudely handled, but a number of them showed the skilled hand of a man who both knew about furs and cared about them.

“Zhikarev had obviously noticed it, too, but he disclaimed any knowledge of the man who had done it. I believe him.”

“You believe
him
?”

“Yes. The furs come from the forest and are obviously taken and treated by several different trappers. There is no way he could know them all, and this one was new.”

“You know that?”

“He swears it and I believe him. I went through many of the furs he has for sale or trade. None of them were handled in the same way.”

She took off her fur hat and shook out her hair. “Comrade Wulff wears a beautiful fur coat, and so does his wife, whom I happened to see. That’s not unexpected in a section where furs are so common, but I have an idea that the comrade is doing very well by himself. I believe the traders favor him somewhat and that he favors them.”

“So?”

“You and I know that happens, and Wulff seems very happy with his position.”

“It is a good one, and he has friends.” His eyes yielded nothing. “Some of his friends in the higher commands have fine fur coats, too. It is not unusual.”

“I do not criticize. I only comment. One comment would be that Wulff knows a good deal about the furs and their origin. No doubt he could provide information if he wished.”

“Ah?”

Zamatev was thinking about it. That Wulff was being given furs he did not doubt. That he might overlook a few things as a result was also probable. That he would in any way betray his government Zamatev did not believe. If Wulff knew where the American was, he would arrest him or at least report him. Hence, he did not know. But was he, perhaps, negligent? Did he know of a place where the American might be? Wulff had once been a very good man. He had covered a lot of wild country long ago. Now he was an administrator and content to be so.

“You spoke to him?”

“He was cooperative. He went back to the house of Zhikarev with me, but Zhikarev was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Not at home.”

“You went inside?”

“We did. Everything looked much the same, except that the bale of furs had been unpacked and placed with other furs of their kind. There were no signs of hurried packing. It looked like he had just stepped out.”

“But you do not believe it?”

“I do not. I think Stegman frightened him. I think he is gone. I may be wrong, but I do not believe he will come back. Or, let us say, I do not think he planned to come back.”

“But he may?”

“As a precaution I suggested to their commanding officer that the border guards be replaced for a few days. That the guards be given some leave and others put in their places.” She smiled. “Just in the event that Zhikarev had made some friends along the border.”

“Good! Very, very good! A friend of Zhikarev might also befriend a friend of his. You ordered the arrest of Zhikarev?”

“I did.”

Zamatev walked to the window and looked out. The little car was farther down the street tonight. He gave it a glance only. This was a lead, although a slim one, scarcely more than that found by Alekhin.

If the American was an Indian he must also be a trapper. Were they not all hunters and trappers? If so, he might be catching fur to raise money he would need and to pay his way now. In any event, he could not afford to ignore any lead.

“You are tired.”

“Not too tired.”

He smiled. “Go home and get some rest. It will be busy around here tonight.”

“We know nothing,” she warned. “It is only the furs.”

“And the man Zhikarev, who disappeared. It is only the guilty who flee.”

“It is sometimes as dangerous to be merely suspect,” she said. “Zhikarev had been questioned before, by Stegman.”

“And others.”

He paused, thinking about it. “We must find him, but Wulff may know something. He is one who always knows more than he says and uses it for his own benefit. This time he will use it for mine.”

“Be careful of him. He has friends.”

He got out his maps after she had gone and studied them. Kyra and Stegman had gone to the Sinyaya and found nothing, and so they might be anywhere. They had sold their furs in Aldan.

Because it was nearby? Or because they knew a buyer who would ask no questions? Of course, for the profit that could be made, there might be many such. But supposing they were near Aldan? He drew a mental circle around the area and began studying the streams. It was wild country once one got away from the city itself. The Sinyaya was far from Aldan. It was not even close. It was closer to Yakutsk.

He considered that. A possible buyer in Yakutsk? Of course, in such a large place there was certain to be one or more than one. Stegman would know. He had worked out of Yakutsk at one time and knew them all.

It was three o’clock in the morning before Alekhin arrived. He came quietly, sat down, and listened.

He had only just come from the taiga, and when Zamatev told him of the furs his face revealed nothing, but he was smiling inwardly. Of course! The man was an Indian. He could hunt and trap. If he had found a good place to hide and a way to sell the furs he trapped, he should have made some money before warm weather. With money in his pocket and a change of clothes he would be harder to find. He might even leave the forest.

Zamatev shook his head. Not Makatozi. He would stay in the forest. Besides he did not know the language. How long to learn to speak Russian? Even a little bit?

“You do not believe in the furs?” Zamatev demanded.

“I believe. This man is a good trapper, I think. I think you waste time. Alekhin can catch him. Only Alekhin.”

“I want him alive.”

Alekhin shrugged. “Always somebody died. Some like to fight me, so I kill. Why not?”

A man named Borowsky came with the furs. He was not alone. They came to Aldan.”

Alekhin considered that. There would be tracks. Borowsky was not the American, who knew so well how to hide a trail. Borowsky would have left something, but finding where he had come into the town would be difficult.

“I will look.” Alekhin looked over at Zamatev. “He will fight, this one. If he fights, I kill him.”

“I do not want him killed! Do you understand? I want him alive!” He paused. “You are a shrewd man, Alekhin. You have trapped animals, why not a man? Trap him, and bring him to me. When he has told me what I want, you can have him.”

Alekhin considered that. To trap him? That would be amusing. He would like to see the American in a trap, helpless.

“I will look.” Alekhin got up and, turning, walked out without a backward glance. Zamatev was irritated, but he needed the Yakut. There was no one quite like him, and nobody had escaped once he had started on the trail. The American would not escape, either.

He asked for and received the dossier on Evgeny Zhikarev. Quickly, he leafed through it. There was no harm in the man except it was suspected that he dealt in illicit furs. That was not unusual. Most furs were sold through the proper channels, but some dealers were known to hold back the best furs and sell or trade them on the black market.

Had the man actually fled? He glanced at the dossier again. He had been questioned by Stegman, and Stegman liked to work on the feet. It was unlikely that Zhikarev would be going very far if he had to walk. So they would find him, and they would find where the furs came from.

Kyra—she was like an extension of himself. A shrewd, intelligent woman, but she had been in Shepilov’s department. He must not trust her too much, not yet. Not ever.

It was always best to keep one’s plans to oneself. Tell no one at all and you were safer.

He walked to the window again, thinking of that vast country out there. Obviously, Alekhin must be right. The man was hunting, somehow. If he had sold furs he had a little money. But how had he sold them? He must have established a connection with somebody who could handle the furs or who had put him in touch with Zhikarev. Find that connection. Kyra had made a start. She had found Zhikarev. Of course, they were surmising too much. The furs might not have been trapped by the American. They were grasping at straws. How had the man disappeared so suddenly, so thoroughly?

Yet he must be wary. Not only within the borders of Yakutia, but all over this part of the country, there had been trouble. There had actually been a move to set up an independent nation, and the army had had to be called in.

Silly fools! How could they hope to exist, situated in the midst of Russian-held territory? Yet there were dissidents still around, and one never knew, in Yakutia, where sympathies lay. The brief revolt, if such it could be called, had been put down quickly and harshly, but the feeling still lurked, hidden in the inmost hearts of many here. A mistake might stir up that feeling again, and they might slow production if nothing else. No doubt there were people in Yakutia who had never surfaced during that aborted nationalistic move who might be willing to help someone escape. Some of their own people were in prison.

He swore bitterly. Why must this happen just when all was proceeding so well? Now his future was on the line. All he had done, his years of work, his careful cultivation of the right people, all could be wasted because of this one man, this American!

He returned to the map. Alekhin would find him. He had never failed, and now for the first time he was officially involved. He had been looking around, asking questions here and there; this Zamatev knew. Now he was involved, and he would discover the American.

Yet he was full of doubt. So many weeks and never even a sighting of the man!