ON THE MORNING of the day that Bocharev came to the cabin above Plastun Bay, Peshkov returned to the village.
It was a chill, bleak day, and he plodded down the path, finding no footprints in the snow. Nor did smoke arise from any of the chimneys. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he went first to the Baronas cabin.
He knocked, expecting no answer, and then he opened the door and stepped in. It was cold inside, and the ashes on the hearth were long dead.
He stared around him, angry that they were gone, yet feeling oddly deserted, too. One by one he went to the other dugouts, caves, and shacks.
Nobody. All were gone.
To hell with them! Served them right if they’d all been taken away to prison! Especially that woman, that Natalya.
Leave it to him. He knew how to get even. He hated them all, everyone except Yakov. He was afraid of Yakov.
He had been afraid that night when the American was behind him with a knife. Damn him! How had he managed that? Anyway, he’d shown him! He was on the run now with half the army after him. They’d get him, too. He wished he could be there when it happened. He would just like to have the American see him there, smiling at him. Come to think of it, he had never found the place where the American had been hiding.
He walked back to the Baronas cabin, snow crunching under his feet. There was fuel there, and he built a small fire. He would roast some meat over the fire, and then he would go have a look. It irritated him that he had not found it before. Then he could have waited outside and shot him when he emerged. He might have gotten a fat reward for that. They’d given him nothing for telling them where he was hiding.
It was cold and miserable in the long-empty cabin. He stared around angrily. It had always been warm and somehow comfortable when they were here.
He made tea and sipped it, squatting on his heels. Everybody was gone, so there was no sense in staying here. They had never liked him, none of them, but he knew them. That was the thing. He knew them and they knew him. They had always been glad enough to get the meat he brought. He’d made them pay for it, one way or another, until that American came, giving them all the meat he could kill.
Where would he go now? Where could he go? He had thought them a miserable lot, even Baronas and that Natalya. Really thought well of themselves, they did. Well, all that education did them no good. They had been in the same fix he was, but now he had fixed them. And they were gone.
Gone.
The word had an empty sound. He had not liked them, but he had known them. Theirs were familiar faces. He had been comfortable around them even though he despised them. Now where could he go?
They had all gone away, scattered like blown snow, but if he sat down he could probably figure out where they had gotten to. Baronas had been no trapper, so he would not be apt to go into the deeper woods. He had heard they were talking of going to some warmer place where the climate would be better for his health.
A warmer place meant the coast of the Sea of Japan. At least, that was the closest place and the only place they could go. They would not dare try to go back into Russia. Anyway, they were not Russians.
Peshkov was a hating man. For the first time in his life he understood that. There had never been anyone he liked. He had tramped with several men, but just because it was easier that way. He had gone along with them, deserting them when the occasion demanded. He was a trapper and a hunter, but a petty thief as well, taking whatever served his purpose and he could get away with. Larger and stronger than most men, he usually had no trouble. Few men were armed and most of them subject to bluff; the others he learned to avoid.
Stephan Baronas had politely ignored him, and Natalya had quietly been in command at the little settlement, something he had resented from the start. In the first place, that she was only a woman; in the second, that she was Lithuanian. Her father had been looked up to among the refugees, but he was not one to relish command or authority. Little by little it had been Natalya who had responded to the needs of their little community. Peshkov’s efforts to take control had simply been ignored by everyone, and he had not known how to cope with that. Several times he had attempted to get her alone, thinking that when he did he would show her who he was and what she was to him. Unfortunately, when he finally succeeded, she proved to have a pistol and a willingness to use it.
Seated beside a fire in what had been the Baronas cabin, he made up his mind. He would find her and show her who was boss. He would wound her if necessary, kill her if he decided it was in his best interests.
To find her would be no great problem. He was a tramp and knew others of his kind. A woman so beautiful would be remembered. He smiled into his empty cup. Then he arose, put out the fire, and stowed away his gear.
First, for his own satisfaction, he would find where the American had been hiding. Then he would hunt down Natalya Baronas.
He was chuckling to himself, thinking of her horror when she would see him again. He would track her down when she was gathering fuel and strike her down. She would be tied up and helpless before she became conscious. He’d show her a thing or two.
It took him a good two hours, during which time he became more and more irritated and impatient. He refused to believe the American could so outwit him, and it was on his third passing that he suddenly decided to explore that crack in the rock. He was a heavy man, and it was a tight squeeze, yet he forced his way through, glimpsing the shelf beyond. Vague sunlight was falling through the trees, and enough was visible so that he was sure he had found it.
Right over there, within a step or two. He could see the place where a fire had been, and—
He pushed himself through the last of the crack and stepped out quickly. After all, he wanted to be away from here before dark. He—
In the instant he took his step he heard the water falling far below, but an instant too late.
He felt himself falling, and wild with panic he dropped his rifle and grabbed out wildly. His fingers caught the edge and held on, and he hung suspended above the void.
He was a strong man, but a heavy man wearing a heavy coat. A moment he hung, choking with fear, and then he tried to pull himself up.
He couldn’t do it. His fingers seemed to slip and he cried out, calling for help.
There was no one to hear. The village was deserted.
He fought down the panic. He could get up there; he had to get up there. Using all his strength he pulled himself up and then tried to get an elbow over the edge.
He made it. His elbow rested on the edge, and he pulled himself up further and swung a leg to the ledge.
In one awful instant he felt the rock under his elbow crumble, and then he fell.
He seemed to fall for a long time, and then he struck with a moment of stabbing agony and then brutal, unendurable pain. He lay on the rocks, half in the icy water, and stared up at the feeble light far above and knew his back was broken.
EVGENY ZHIKAREV HAD waited and planned too long to accept defeat. Carefully, through his friends among the traders and dealers in furs, he put out feelers. From here and there he received news. An order had gone out for the arrest of Stephan and Natalya Baronas. Zamatev was rounding up all who had had meetings or contact with the American, who was still at large. The village had been deserted, Botev and Borowsky had disappeared, and so had Baronas and his daughter. Evgeny Zhikarev knew his own time was short. Undoubtedly, an order for his arrest was already out.
He was not a man to panic. He did not plan to be taken again. He had gone that route, with crippled feet to show for it, as well as some other scars.
His cousin was growing restless, and he knew that his cousin wished he would go away. It had been a warm, wonderful visit, but as the visit lengthened the cousin’s patience grew shorter. No matter, he was going.
He would go suddenly, without warning, for who knew about relatives these days? Which could you trust, if any? The Soviet system was founded upon suspicion and distrust.
He had gone down into the town, taking his time, for he could walk but slowly. It was warm in the sun, and there was no snow in the town, although he could see it on the mountains. He had learned to use his eyes and ears and to pay attention, so within a short time he knew the business and the activities of most people along the street. Trucks and vans came here, unloading goods or loading furs, and he watched for a familiar face.
Suddenly he sighted someone he knew. He started forward and then relaxed. His truck driver friend was involved with the black market, among other things, and might not wish to be seen. However, glancing over, the driver saw him and came over. “Still here? What do you know? I saw Potanin the other day!”
“Potanin?” Zhikarev concealed his excitement. “Where?”
“He’s got a post near Iman now.” He lowered his voice. “Up to his old tricks, too. If you’ve got some furs—?”
“Are you going that way?”
“Midnight.” He glanced around. “Furs,” he said, “Potanin an’ me. Trouble is, we’ve nobody over the river. You know?”
Evgeny Zhikarev forced expression from his face. “There’s a man in Hulin, just across the river,” he suggested.
“His name?” The driver was excited. “Just the one I need!”
Zhikarev shook his head. “It is not that simple. He is not Chinese, and he had relatives in Yakutia. If it should be discovered that he was involved in anything, they might suffer. He will deal, but only with people whom he knows.”
“Could you come? You know Potanin. He trusts you. It is a big deal, and for you there would be something. You could have an edge of the deal.”
“Well,” he seemed to hesitate. “I am happy here, but—well, I like to be dealing. This—,” he waved a hand, “is a bit tame.
“At midnight, you say? Here?”
“Right here.”
“Expect me,” he said, and hobbled away along the street.
Iman! It was right on the river! If he could not wangle some way to cross the border to make their deal, he would be surprised. This was it, his great chance. He must be careful not to betray himself to his cousin or his family.
There was always the risk, too, that the truck would be stopped and inspected. There were few roads and they were watched, although carelessly.
When he stepped into the house his cousin was waiting for him, along with his wife and their son, their faces stern.
“Evgeny Ivanovich,” his cousin said, “I must ask you to leave this house.”
Evgeny Zhikarev tried to look startled. “Leave? Why?”
“We have just heard it. You are to be arrested. The KGB looks for you. We cannot afford—”
“Of course,” he said, and waved a hand. “I shall leave at once. I would not wish you to be troubled because of me. I did not know, but—”
They had expected trouble. They had expected argument, pleading. They were both astonished and overjoyed.
“Please. Think no more about it. You are my own cousin. You have a wife, a family! However,” he paused, “if you could make up a little bundle? Some food? Anything to keep me alive?”
“Of course! Sonya?”
She bustled about while he gathered his few things. This was easy, almost too easy. So they knew of the order for his arrest? Where were the KGB then? Or was it GRU? He must be careful, and if he could get away, it would be none too soon.
“But how—?” said his cousin.
He put a finger to his lips and looked sly. “I know a fisherman! A good man! He will take me up the coast to Magadan.”
At midnight, when the truck drew alongside, he was ready to move from the dark doorway where he waited.
He heard it rumbling over the pavement before it reached him, and he was prepared. Despite his crippled feet, he moved quickly when the door opened. He scrambled in, and the truck roared off before he was fairly seated.
“I am taking a risk, my friend,” the driver said. “For anyone else I’d not do it, but we have made a bit together, you and I, and perhaps again, but now they search for you. I’d be arrested if they found you in my truck, so keep low and sit well back. The fewer who see you the better.”
“You have heard something?”
“They look for you. Look everywhere.” The driver glanced at him. “They must think you important.”
“It is the American, the one they search for. Maybe some of the furs I bought were trapped by him. At least, that is what they think. I know nothing! I never saw the man! Some of the furs—well, let us say they were different. Let us say I recognized a strange hand. But know? I knew nothing. I know nothing! I do not wish to be questioned, that is all.”
“Is Iman good for you, then? I hope so. I can’t risk taking you further.”
“You say Potanin is there?”
“He is. We did some business. Oh, just a little bit! But he is hungry, that one! He has found a woman, and she makes demands! If you have a proposition, I promise you he will listen.”
The truck rumbled on, climbing a steep, winding road. Evgeny Zhikarev leaned back and closed his eyes, praying to an almost forgotten God. “Please, dear God! Just this once! Let me escape them! Let me cross the river into China! I haven’t the strength anymore!” He whispered it in his mind, praying, fearful of what lay ahead and of what came from behind.
The dark walls of the forest closed down. Thank God he was not out there, walking that dark forest in the snow!
Where could the American be? How could he escape them? As a boy he had traveled through the dismal forests of fir in the urman, or taiga, in western Siberia. He had been frightened, terribly frightened of the bears, although he had never seen one. And in the eastern forests, he had been afraid of the tigers, and he had seen one take a woman from a field.
There were tigers here, in this forest. He spoke aloud, saying that, and the driver nodded. “Saw one my last trip. Big fellow, standing in the road when my lights caught him. He wasn’t afraid, either! Not afraid of me or the truck. He crouched, and for a moment I thought he was going to jump right over the lights at me. I swerved, almost skidded off the road, but when I got the truck straightened out he was gone!”
They rumbled on into the night and Zhikarev slept, awakened, and slept again.
Once, atop a ridge, they stopped, and the driver awakened him. He had a thermos of tea. “Here! You can share!”
“A thermos?”
The driver gave him a knowing smile. “I do good business and with the right people. I can get anything! Anything at all!” He patted the wheel. “That’s what this does for me! I have a truck and I can move! Everybody wants something! Even the leaders! Believe me, if I stopped driving, a lot of people would suffer! They are all on the take! Everyone!”
“Even Zamatev?”
The driver shook his head. “Not him! Nobody can touch him! Offer a bribe and you find yourself in a labor camp! He has plans, that one! I can see it in him! He thinks he will be very big someday and wants nobody hanging to his coattails reminding him he owes them favors!”
He drove on in silence. “Don’t ever cross him. Take it from me, he’ll have you hunted down and killed! It has happened! When he was on the way up, there was a man who knew him, saw him show cowardice, and spoke of it. That man disappeared.
“Gone! Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Everybody is afraid of him! He has big ears! If anyone breathes in Magadan, he hears it in Yakutsk!”
The truck slowed. “Look! Somebody walking! And we are fifty miles from a town! Well, of all things! It is a woman!”
She turned toward them. “Stop the truck,” Zhikarev said. “I know her.”