If he were to remain in the streambed, there was no chance of being seen unless somebody flew along the ridge or some chance hunter or prospector came upon him. Nor did he know what awaited him on the other side of the ridge.
Finding a mossy bank sheltered from the wind he lay down to let the sun’s warmth take the chill from his flesh. Long ago he had learned to relax completely, to simply rest. He did so now.
The sky was an impossible blue, the soft wind was chill but fresh and pleasant. There, under the open sky, he rested and then slept for a few minutes, awakening refreshed.
He restrung his bow, hung his quiver in place behind his shoulder, and slowly began to work his way up the streambed toward where the stream began, flowing from under the sliderock near the top of the ridge. He mounted slowly, working his way through a vast tumble of broken granite slabs that offered some concealment.
He was behind the slabs when he heard a sudden rumble of heavy machinery, then a shout, and again a rumble, His heart pounding, he squatted behind a slab, waiting and listening. Again he heard it.
In the valley below him some kind of heavy work was under way. He heard the rumble of what had to be a Caterpillar tractor. Easing himself forward he found a place to peer around a boulder and look down into the valley.
Another river! He swore under his breath. But between where he crouched and the river, there was work going on. He could see for more than a mile in either direction, and at least three pieces of heavy equipment were working. A bulldozer, a backhoe, and a third piece that he could not make out. Fifty or sixty men and women with shovels were working down there preparing the roadbed for a railroad.
He swore again, looking at the mountains beyond. Somehow, he would have to cross to the mountains. He would have to get past the railroad bed they were preparing, cross the river, and get into the mountains beyond.
Somehow, but how?
From his pack he took another bit of the dried mutton. It was stiff, hard, and cold, but he bit off a piece and began to chew, studying the situation.
At night, they would surely stop at night. He had heard of this railroad, had known it would be somewhere ahead of him, but just where he had not known.
Something moved! He turned sharply, half rising. He was looking into the business end of a pistol. The man holding the pistol was thirty feet away, standing with his feet apart, staring at him. It was a narrow, scholarly sort of face, and the man had sandy red hair and cool, blue-gray eyes.
Joe Mack looked at the gun and considered the distance. His muscles tensed. He leaned slightly forward.
Nine
Colonel Arkady Zamatev was shaving. He looked at himself in the mirror, but without approval. There was still power in the heavy muscles of shoulders and chest, but there was a hint of softness, too, and he did not like it. He finished shaving and cleaned his razor. Looking in the mirror he could see the girl. She was sitting up in bed, watching him.
Kyra was, he reflected, the best of them. This one had brains. She would make a good wife. The trouble was there was no place for her in his plans, though marriage was an important part of them. To marry the right woman, that was important. Deliberately he had avoided entanglements, avoided anything that hinted at permanence. When he married it would be the daughter or sister of an important man.
Arkady Zamatev knew where he was going, and he knew how to get there. So far, he had
made no mistakes. So far, all the pieces had been falling into place, all but this damned American. His escape could ruin everything.
“You’re a handsome man, Arkady.”
He glanced at her, making a slight bow. “I thank you.”
She was beautiful, and there was something special about her, something different. Or was that his glands speaking? He looked at himself wryly in the mirror and said in his mind, Don’t be a fool.
“I think,” she was lighting a cigarette, and for a moment a flicker of irritation went through him, “you will go far, just as far as you wish.” She paused. “If you catch the American.”
“You know about him?”
“Everybody does. When the Army is alerted, word gets around. You will catch him, I think. How could he get away?”
Zamatev did not like talking about it. This one was closemouthed; he had already made sure of that. Nevertheless —
“He may already be dead. How could he survive? Without food? And it is growing cold.”
Arkady Zamatev said something that had been in his mind but unspoken until now. “This one is different,” he admitted, “but we will get him.”
“Shepilov wants him, too. ”
“What do you know about Shepilov?” Zamatev’s eyes were cold. “I did not know you knew him.”
“I worked in his bureau.”
“I knew that, but — ”
She smiled teasingly. “No, I didn’t, if that is what you’re wondering. Anyway, Shepilov does not encourage the girls. He is too afraid of his wife. She’s a terror. Or so I hear. ”
Zamatev knew all about Masha. People avoided her, and Shepilov had been passed over
for promotion at least once because of her. Associate with a man and you associate with his wife, and she was not liked. It was a mistake Zamatev did not intend to make, he told himself that again.
“Shepilov” — she brushed ash from her cigarette — “wants him. He wants to say you lost
the prisoner and it took Shepilov to catch him.”
“I will get him.”
“I am sure you will. I hope you will. You are a good man, Arkady, good for Russia, but you have enemies. You stand in the way of too many people. Shepilov, for one. Until now there has been nothing they could say; now they are saying it, quietly and among themselves. Tomorrow, if Shepilov should catch him — ”
“I know,” he admitted.
He put away his razor and picked up his shirt. She was getting out of bed and he averted his eyes. Somehow it always embarrassed him to see a woman dressing. It was stupid of him, after all that had passed between them, but still the feeling was there.
“What is he like, this American?”
Zamatev paused, buttoning his shirt. He stared at the mirror but remembered the American. “Tall,” he said, “strong looking. Arrogant. ” He paused, buttoned another button, and added, “He was not afraid. All of the others, all of them, were afraid, but not him.”
“I heard he is an Indian?”
“He is.”
“But they were savages! Primitive!”
He shrugged. “Once. Now I hear they are heads of oil companies. Suvarov tells me one of them was Vice President of the United States.”
“But he is an Indian? Shepilov is wrong, then. He is looking in the cities. He is looking along the Amur.”
“Where do you think we should look?”
“In the taiga. If he is an Indian — ”
“That’s what Alekhin believes.”
“Alekhin is looking for him?” She shuddered a little. “He frightens me, Alekhin does. There’s something about him, something ugly.”
Zamatev knew what she meant, but he shrugged. “He is a Yakut.”
“I’ve known many Yakuts. Two of my closest girlfriends are Yakuts. They are afraid of him, too.”
Zamatev finished dressing and reached for his coat. Alekhin always got his man. The trouble was that by the time the GRU got to them they were dead. It happened too often, much too often. Often one killed from necessity but Alekhin seemed to like killing. Well, he must speak to him. This American he wanted alive, if possible. The American was no good to him dead.
Strange, that in all this time he had not been seen or heard from. Alekhin believed he had a clue. The Yakut was sure he knew where he was but as yet had not caught him. Arkady Zamatev did not like leaving for the taiga himself. It gave his enemies too much of an opportunity. While he was around they were afraid of him, and he wanted them to remain so.
She was buttoning her blouse. “Arkady? Do you want me to help?”
Astonished, he glanced at her. “You? How could you help?”
She smiled at him. “I can help. I worked in the bureau for three years.”
“You believe that taught you enough?” he scoffed gently.
“It taught me that most of them are time wasters. Most of them are stupid plodders. They have no insight, no intuition. If he has evaded you this long, something new is needed.”
Zamatev could not have agreed more. Yet how could she help?