Louis L'Amour: Last of the Breed

“Quickly!” she said and almost ran down. Then they ducked under the wharf. It was dark and shadowed there, with only occasional bits of light coming through cracks in the wharf. There was a steep bank of earth sloping down to the rim of ice that bordered the river, and two old boats were tied there, one of them half filled with water filmed with ice. The other boat was empty except for some old nets.

“There!” Evgeny pointed. “Get into the boat and cover up with the nets.”

Quickly, they scrambled into the boat and pulled the old nets over them. Then they lay very still.

They could hear the roar of a motor, the screech of brakes, and then a pounding on a door. Natalya lay very still, scarcely breathing, straining her ears to hear.

A door creaked, and there were voices. Then a door closed. The room would have been cold, and they had left no signs of their occupation. The place was as it had been when they had arrived.

She heard the crunch of boots on gravel and then on the wharf overhead. Then the feet retreated. After a moment she heard boots coming down the little path and pausing, and she saw the shadow of a man, apparently peering under the dock. Then she heard retreating footsteps.

After a while came the sound of cars starting and then driving away. She started to move, but Evgeny placed a hand on her shoulder. “Not yet,” he said.

They lay still while the time ticked away, and after a long time, what must have been an hour, he sat up. Carefully, they got out of the boat and arranged the nets as they had found them. He sat down on the bank, choosing a piece of plank to keep off the frozen earth. She sat beside him.

“We must wait,” he said. “The less movement the better, and it will not be long now.”

It was growing dark when they emerged from under the wharf. There were scattered lights across the river. Her feet were almost frozen, and she stamped them on the wharf to get them warm again. Evgeny looked at his watch.

“We will stay here a little longer,” he said.

“Lieutenant Potanin said fifteen minutes to midnight,” she reminded.

He nodded. “We have a way to go, and we cannot hurry. Along the quiet streets would be better.”

“What about the Chinese? What if they will not accept us?”

He shrugged. “We can only try, but they are usually friendly to anyone escaping from the Soviets. This is an old, old border, and there has been much trouble along it for centuries. Once, all this was considered part of China, and it is still shown as such on some of their maps.”

Lights stabbed the darkness, reflecting from the open water and from the ice along the edges and the floes. “Now,” he said, “we will go.”

Coming up from the river, they stopped a minute, looking across at the blank old building that had briefly been a refuge. It looked cold and gray and dismal. Together they started along the street. He used his cane, moving slowly. She thought that surely they would be recognized, for if they were looking for a crippled old man and a young woman—

She said as much. “No,” he said, “they will not expect to find you with me. They will expect your father.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Her father? She had buried him herself. Unable to dig a grave in the frozen earth, she had covered him with spruce boughs and then managed to cave part of a bank over him. He had said to her once, long ago, “When I die, remember that what you knew of me is with you always. What is buried is only the shell of what was. Do not regret the shell, but remember the man. Remember the father.”

There were lights on the bridge, lights over the guardhouse, a gate across the bridge for wheeled traffic, and a smaller gate for pedestrians. At the far end of the bridge, they could see another post. It was not until they were on the approach to the bridge that she saw the Volga. It was standing in the darkness just off the bridge and across from them. Its motor was running.

“Evgeny…?” she whispered.

“Keep walking,” he said. “Do not look around.”

It was no more than thirty yards to the guardhouse, but it seemed the longest distance she had ever walked in her life. Why didn’t the watchers in the car stop them? The Volga merely sat there, engine running, dark and threatening. At any moment, she expected it to start up, to rush toward them.

What should she do? Stop and wait? Run back toward the town? Or run across the bridge? She knew of people who had been shot trying to flee, but nonetheless, that was what she would do. She would run, run as she had never run. Maybe they would let her go, maybe she would be shot, but she would run.

“Take your time,” Evgeny whispered. “We are almost there. Your lieutenant is standing up, watching us.”

“Suppose he isn’t on duty?”

“We will try anyway.”

Now that they were so close, the old man was strong again. His fears seemed to have vanished. “I have money,” he said, “in Hong Kong. You will want for nothing. I shall see to it.”

“I want to go to America,” she said.

“We will see to it,” he replied confidently. “Now stay calm. Let me talk.”

Lieutenant Potanin stepped from the guardhouse as they drew near. They could see two soldiers standing inside, warming their hands over a stove.

He looked quickly from one to the other. “This may get me into trouble,” he said, “but I shall do it.” He turned toward the pedestrian gate.

At that moment they heard the sound of a car. It was some distance away but coming fast. He fumbled with the lock, and the car wheeled onto the bridge.

Kyra Lebedev stepped quickly from the car. Stegman got down on the other side. “Dr. Baronas! You are under arrest!”

Evgeny turned so his face was in the light. “I am not Dr. Baronas,” he said. “I am Evgeny Zhikarev.”

“Ah? So it is you!” She turned to Natalya. “But you are Natalya Baronas, are you not? Where is your father?”

“He is dead. He died crossing the mountains.”

“Ah? Too bad. Come now, both of you. You—”

A boot scraped on gravel, and a low, strong voice said, “Let them alone!”

Angrily, Kyra Lebedev turned. A big man in a heavy overcoat faced her. She stopped, suddenly dry mouthed and frightened.

“I am Bocharev,” the big man said.

“But we have an order,” Kyra protested, “an order for their arrest. The GRU—”

“I know all about it. The order has been countermanded.” His eyes were cold. “You may go,” he said. “You are not needed here.”

Still, Kyra Lebedev hesitated. “But what shall I tell Colonel Zamatev?”

“He has already been informed, as you will hear.” He pointed. “Go now! You are not needed here!”

She hesitated no longer. Stegman was already getting into the car.

From an inside pocket, Bocharev took a sheaf of papers and handed them to Natalya. “Your passport, your visa.”

He glanced at Evgeny. “This is not your father?”

She explained, and he nodded. “Do not worry. I shall see his body is found and buried properly.” He glanced at Evgeny again. “How about you, comrade?”

“I have papers, comrade.” Evgeny’s voice was trembling. “I—”

“You have assisted this young lady,” Bocharev replied. He turned to Natalya. “Sometime, in a moment, remember my son.”

“I shall never forget him,” she replied. “Nor you.”

“Go now, quickly.” Bocharev turned to Lieutenant Potanin. “Pass them, Lieutenant. Their papers are in order.”

“Yes, comrade!”

Bocharev stood alone, watching them go, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then, at last, he walked back to the Volga.

At the end of the bridge a Chinese officer was awaiting them. Natalya turned and looked back, lifting a hand in farewell. She saw the lights of the car go on and saw it turn away.