Louis L'Amour: Last of the Breed

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 him, 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.