Louis L'Amour - Last of the Breed

“Do Indians have cars?”

He chuckled. “The pickup has replaced the pony. I think every Indian has one, or if he does not own a pickup he soon will.”

They paused again. “The way of life changes very rapidly in America. When cars became available, Americans began to travel even more, and at first there were tourist parks where they could stop at night and camp. Usually there was one building where there were showers and a place to cook. Then there were tourist courts where you could rent a room with a carport attached. That gave way to the motel, and now the motels are passing. Too many Americans are flying now, rather than driving. It used to be that there were filling stations on every corner and almost as many motels. Each year now there are fewer. I believe that soon there will be vast stretches in America where nobody travels but local people. It is faster to go by air.”

“But you have railroads!”

“Of course, and for something less than one hundred years they were very important. They grow less so year by year.”

Joe Mack did not go further. There was a restlessness in him that he felt was a warning. They parted there at the edge of the cluster of shelters, and she walked away without looking back. For a long moment he stood looking after her.

It was a grim life that faced her, a truly beautiful young woman condemned to live her life out in a forest, making do in a crude shelter, always in fear of discovery and what might follow. He had never been given to parties or even the essential affairs an officer was called upon to attend. He had gone, and he had known the effect he created, but he was happiest when far out in the woods or when flying alone and high in the sky. Yet thinking of Natalya he could see her in an evening gown at some of the balls or dinners he had attended. She was made for that world, not this.

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.

Colonel 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.”