Nel’kan was closer. There were some good men there, and if they moved down from the north they could, they might, intercept the American.
Alekhin could be right. Perhaps they wasted time searching villages and towns, watching the borders. If the man had reverted to living like an Indian, he would certainly be in the forest. Cold it might be, but the aborigines had lived there for thousands of years. It still might be done.
So? What was the situation? Kyra would find the village where the informant had said there was a woman. Suvarov could move into action from Nel’kan. And Alekhin was on the Indian’s trail from the vicinity of the helicopter crash.
But think of it! Three men gone and a helicopter! Kyra was right, as usual; let the report stand. No use to muddy the waters.
Of course, there was Shepilov, but Shepilov be damned!
Evgeny Zhikarev stood alone in the night watching the truck disappear along the bumpy road.
Potanin had taken leave and gone to Yakutsk. A Lieutenant Baransky was now in charge, a stickler for the rules. Standing in the darkness on his crippled feet, he wondered what he should do.
He dared not return to his shop. He would be questioned, and he had been through all that. His escape was cut off for the time being, and to think of all that nice money awaiting him in Hong Kong!
He could not think of that now. To attempt to get past Baransky would be to ruin all he had planned. Baransky would either arrest him or report him if he suggested he had business over the line. He would be arrested, questioned —
No. That was out of the question. So what to do? After all, he was a trader in furs and a few other things as well, and there were others like him, and they knew each other. For the sake of business it was important they know each other. So what to do?
He needed time. Two weeks, perhaps a month, before Potanin was back on the border. He would come back broke, or he was like no soldier Zhikarev had ever known. Broke and ready to do business. So he had only to wait, but where?
Khabarovsk? His cousin was there, doing a little business in furs but holding some government job as well. On the coast, though, was another cousin at a little place on Olga Bay. That might be safer, but was further away, almost twice as far.
Hobbling on his crippled feet and using a cane to good effect, he started down the street to a place he knew. The street was empty. What would he say if a patrol came by?
He heard a confused sound of voices behind him, and he hurriedly drew back into an opening between two buildings.
A gang of hooligans, and if they found him they would certainly rob and beat him. They might even kill him. Such gangs had become common in Russia. Not long ago, one such gang had beaten an engineer to death to rob him of his blue jeans. Fortunately, these had not seen him. They went back in a straggling group, shouting obscenities at each other.
When he reached the place he sought, several trucks were preparing to leave. Known to several of the drivers, he soon found a ride to Khabarovsk.
The driver was talkative. Zhikarev would have preferred to sleep, but he knew there was no better source of information than these drivers, who were continually on the move. What they had not seen themselves they heard from other drivers.
“How are things along the coast?”
“Quiet. Fishing’s good, they say.” He jerked his head toward the rear. “Back there is trouble. A prisoner has escaped, and he must be a big one. They are asking all sorts of questions. I tell them nothing. Let them find out, if they can.
“Khabarovsk is busy. Filled with soldiers. Builders, too. Always a lot of construction in Khab.”
He droned on, talking of this and that, and Zhikarev listened, but with only half his attention. He simply wanted to rest.
“Going on this time. Only stopping in Khab for fuel. Going on to the coast.”
Zhikarev’s eyes opened. “To the seacoast? I have a cousin at Olga Bay. I have been thinking — ”
“Stay with me. I can take you right there.”
“I would like that. I would like it very much.”
“Cost you,” the driver glanced at him, wondering how much the little man was good for. Not much, probably. Might be better just to get him off into the mountains and —
No, no. He had connections. If he did not turn up where he was going, the word would get out. Maybe to the KGB, but more likely to his own people. This one was into furs, and those fur dealers and trappers all worked together.
Try something on one of them and you ended up with your truck in a ditch and your head bashed in. Not for him; he had too many dark and lonely roads to drive.
“Last time I drove to the coast,” he said, “I saw a tiger. Big one, too. Right in the middle of the road. Looked as big as a cow. Jumped out of the way.
“Beautiful over there, beyond the Sikhote Alins. Like to live there when I settle down. If I ever do.” He swung the heavy truck around a wide curve. There was no traffic on the road. “My girl says no. She likes cities. Wants to live in Khab. Excitement, she says.
“Excitement, huh! She should drive this truck for a while! She’d see excitement!
“Take last night. KGB all over the place. Getting ready to raid some place in the forest. Must have been fifty of them; soldiers, too!”
Zhikarev listened, only half awake. It began to seem that he had decided to move just at the right time. There were furs in his shop, but he had left papers consigning them to Wulff. He chuckled. Let Wulff explain that.
“Where d’you want to go, exactly?” the driver was asking.
“Olga,” he said. “My cousin’s there.”
“Oh, sure! Used to be a tiny place. When I was a youngster I was there once, only a customs house and a barracks there then. Now it’s become quite a place.
“Seafood! Best anywhere around. Fresh caught, right from the bay or the Sea of Japan! Tetyukhe Bay is right along the coast there. Know it well. Plastun Bay, too. Everybody eats well around there! Fish, all kinds, ducks, geese, venison, whatever you want. That girl of mine, she likes the bright lights and the dancing! Me, I like to eat well! I like to fish, myself. Well, I’ll just have to talk her into it. ”
Zhikarev slept, uneasily, bouncing around on the rough road, listening to the drone of the driver’s voice. It was warm in the truck’s cab and the driver had covered the seat with sheepskin.
Suddenly, a long time later, the truck pulled over into the shadows under some trees. A hand touched Zhikarev’s shoulder.
“Go over there under the trees. It will be cold, but you wait there.”
Zhikarev gathered himself and buttoned his heavy coat. He took up his cane and got clumsily down from the cab.
“Pick you up on my way out from Khab.” The driver hesitated and then said, “I would stay hidden was I you. The word’s out to pick up a man with crippled feet. Might be using a cane.”
The truck rolled away, pushing an avenue of light before it. How long had he ridden? For days and nights, it seemed.
So they were looking for him? Well, he had expected it. This driver seemed a decent sort. If he could only get to the coast. Nobody knew about his cousin, or he did not believe they did. He could stay there until things quieted down, and then back to the border and after that, Hong Kong.
It was cold, bitterly cold! Using his cane, he hobbled across the road and into the trees.
Twenty-Two
Peshkov met them in Aldan. Colonel Zamatev took an instant dislike to the man, but that was the trouble with this business. You encountered many such, and you had to handle them with gloves for they might know something. Yet they were liars as well as traitors, and one had to be careful. Always, there was the chance of an ambush such as had occurred a few months ago, when several KGB officers were led into a trap and murdered. There was so much crime these days. It was never in the newspapers unless there was a trial and the judgment reported.
Peshkov would lead them to the village. Stegman glared at him from cold blue eyes. “If anything goes wrong,” he said, “if there is trouble, I will kill you first.”